


Fixation

by Klaineaholic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also known as, Dark!Castiel, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Female Castiel (Supernatural), Gaslighting, Male Castiel (Supernatural), Manipulative Relationship, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsessive Behavior, POV Bisexual Character, POV Female Character, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Burn, cock!Castiel, cunt!Castiel, dark!fic, highkey kinda toxic so like don't date people who do this irl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-09
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-04-23 06:01:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 61,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klaineaholic/pseuds/Klaineaholic
Summary: Castiel is back on Earth for the first time in almost one hundred years with a mission to prevent the apocalypse and prepare the Sword of Michael. When you cross paths with him, he’s determined to win you back by any means necessary, even if it means failing his mission.You’ve known Sam since your first class with him at Stanford, and have been hunting on and off with the Winchesters for years. But you’ve been hunting since before they were born. With Lucifer on the brink of escape and angels swarming like flies, will you be able to help the Winchesters and keep your secret buried in the past?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N — This fic was inspired by the episode 12x10 “Lily Sunder Has Some Regrets” and was urged into fruition by @thran-duils and @fanforfanatic on Tumblr. Please note that while the fic is largely canon-compliant, Castiel has more toxic personality traits that drive the narrative of this story. Largely set in season 4.

**_September 1908_ **

Cities are entirely too loathsome. Rather, the people in them are what repulses you. Silly and trivial, mundane things consume them. The fashion, the latest gadgets (who even needs automobiles, honestly), and the _men_.

You adjust your grip on your schoolbooks and stride toward the library. Being one of the few women on the university campus wasn’t as exciting as you originally thought it would be. Obviously, the access to books and a Latin instructor is invaluable, but dealing with male students who ogle and attempt to call upon you when you have other priorities is growing tiresome.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jacobson!” you chirp to the librarian, an elderly gentleman with a receding, gray hairline and spectacles. He offers you a tight smile and immediately returns to his paperwork. You make a beeline for the shelves you’ve been slowly working your way through during the past two years at the university.

“Two hundred, two ten, two twenty, two thirty, ah hah!” you turn down the aisle. “Two thirty… one… two… three… four… _five_.” You hoist two hefty books from the religion shelves and lug them over to the counter.

Mr. Jacobson peers at you over his spectacles. “Odd books for a lady to be reading,” he sniffs, not for the first time.

“I’m a scholar, Mr. Jacobson,” you remind him smoothly. The door clicks open behind you, and Mr. Jacobson greets the patron before turning back to you and the book in hand. “Yes, though most scholars reading _A Treatise of Angels: Of the Nature, Essence, Place, Power, Science, Will, Apparitions, Grace, Sinne, and All Other Proprieties of Angels_ have a vocation of preaching, I’d imagine.”

The footsteps of the patron who just entered halt almost immediately. You bite your tongue, wishing the old, close-minded man would stop making a scene, as he did with every book you borrowed. Mr. Jacobson sees your intent to be unresponsive and doesn’t press further. He makes a record of your name, the check-out date, and the return date, and he finally hands you the books without comment.

You thank the librarian with a tight smile and curt nod, and turn, coming face-to-face with a woman staring at you with a bit of curiosity and awe in her gaze. Her eyes are the bluest you have ever seen, bluer than the sky has ever been. Maybe if you’d seen the ocean at some point in your life you could compare it to that.

Mr. Jacobson clears his throat behind you. You blink. “Pardon me,” you apologize to the woman, making your way around her to the exit.

Odd that she didn’t even say a thing after staring so long, you think faintly.

You decide to take advantage of the nice weather that greets you outside the library, and stroll to the park near the university, only a short few miles from your home, to read through your book. There’s a park bench under a tree that you settle into — the breeze rustles the leaves overhead, allowing mottled sunlight to dance across the pages.

There’s a passage that stands out to you, and you whisper it aloud, transferring the words to your notes for future reference. “Wherefore Angels be nothing else but a most pure and perfect, intellectual, immaterial, and immortal Creature, created and appointed to be God’s attendants, and messengers between God and man.”

“It’s wrong you know.”

You start and turn to see the woman from the library peering over your shoulder at the text with those deep blue eyes. She greets you by name, and her voice is light and airy, a sharp contrast to her sharp cheekbones and lips pressed thin in a line.

You’re so ecstatic at the thought of speaking about your studies with a woman who seems to be a scholar that you almost forget you never offered up your name.

“Do I know you?” you ask tentatively.

She sees your confusion and offers a distant smile, shaking her head slightly.

“Forgive me. I am Castiel.” _Castiel_. An odd, beautiful name fitting for the woman standing before you. You gesture for her to sit by you and she complies while saying, “Angels are as much warriors as they are messengers.”

You nod in agreement. “Fighting sin and chasing it from the hearts of men?”

“No,” Castiel frowns. “Sin is a choice. God gave humans free will for a reason.”

“So they fight demons then?” you ask somewhat skeptically.

“Yes,” she answers, her tone and face solemn. She holds your gaze unblinkingly.

“Castiel,” her name rolls off your tongue and it’s musical. “I’ve never heard your name before. Are you new to the university’s theology department?”

She gives you a meaningful smile, like she knows the punchline to a joke you haven’t finished telling her.

“No,” Castiel says. “I’m an angel of the Lord.”

Your face drops, and you don’t even realize you’d been smiling. Tearing your eyes away from her, you scour the park.

“Who put you up to this?” you slam the book shut angrily and stand. “Was it Robert Woodfield? Or William Yates? Do you think it’s funny to mock the only woman studying theology in the entire state?”

Castiel seems taken aback as you hoist your skirts away from the bench and stride away with the book in your arms.

“I’m not mocking you.”

Without a glance backward, you storm away. Castiel calls out after you.

You halt mid-step. Not because you are at all interested in what excuse Castiel — or whatever her real name is — has to offer, but because she is no longer on the bench behind you. Castiel is in front of you, a whole foot away, like she materialized out of nowhere.

“Wha—how did you?” the distance between Castiel and the bench is several yards. And she didn’t come from behind you anyway, she just appeared.

Castiel tilts her head to the side. “I told you already. I’m an angel.”

_**September 2008** _

_BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BE—_

After three tries, you cut the clock’s alarm short and sit up in bed to stretch and yawn and groan and rub at the sleep in your eyes while the sun shines through your window. You give yourself a few more minutes to really wake up before tossing your legs over the side of the bed and forcing yourself up on your feet and down the hall to the kitchen.

While the water for your morning tea heats up, you make your rounds around the house: checking sigils, refreshing hex bags with new ingredients, and taking stock of your hidden weapons. When the kettle whistles, you hurry back to the kitchen and brew a fresh cup of tea.

The leaves on the tree just outside your kitchen window are beginning to turn. Spatterings of red, orange, and yellow are spread amongst the trees in your yard. Fall again, you muse.

“ _Om bah nah sah bah leh ta pah deh rah_ ,” you chant. The sigils lining your windows glow bright and you close your eyes as they flash a blinding white. Good, still strong. A few seconds later the ringtone from your cell phone goes off, and Sam Winchester’s name flashes on your screen. It’s been way too long since you’ve heard from your college friend, so you immediately answer.

“Hey Sam! Long time, no see,” you greet cheerily.

“Hey Smalls, yeah it’s been a while.” You frown at Sam’s short response and detached tone. In the four months that Dean has been gone, he hasn’t sounded anything like the Sam you’ve been hunting with for years.

You check softly, “How are you doing?”

“Fine. Hey, uh. Got this thing over in Pontiac, Illinois, but saw some leads for a vamp case a few hours south in Springfield. Got time to check them out or pass ‘em along to someone?”

He’s not fine, but he doesn’t want to talk about it, and even knowing Sam as long as you have won’t change that. “Sure, I’ll get someone to take care of it.”

Sam barely mumbles out his thanks before the line clicks. The phone’s screen goes black, and you stare at it wondering how long his mourning for Dean will last, and if he’s doing okay alone. Not that he’s entirely alone. He has Bobby, Ellen, and Jo. And you. Though he hasn’t seen you in months and last you heard, Bobby hadn’t seen him since the day Dean got dragged into Hell by one of the hounds.

It’s not like you let him visit much before Dean’s death anyway. Having visitors wasn’t really conducive to staying hidden, and even though meeting up with Sam and Dean for the occasional hunt was risky, you took precautions. Besides, it was nice to have friends after being alone for so many decades.

\--

Two weeks later, you get another morning call from Sam with the strangest news. “You’re shitting me,” you snort.

“I wish I was,” Sam’s voice crackles through your phone. “I know it’s crazy, but we could really use your help. I know I haven’t been the best friend to you over the past few months—”

You tuck your phone against your ear with your shoulder and start tossing clothes into a bag. “Sam, don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to let you all face the freakin’ apocalypse alone. I can get to Bobby’s by dinner tonight.” The sigh of relief on Sam’s end of the phone line does not go unnoticed.

“Thanks, Smalls.”

“Hey,” you add quickly before he hangs up, “I’m glad Dean’s okay.”

Sam is quiet on the other end for a second. “Yeah, me too.”

You say your goodbyes and quickly finish packing up — clothes, some biblical lore and research you have on the apocalypse, and any rare ingredients you figure Bobby might need stocking up on. If the Winchesters are calling you about the end of the world, who knows what you would need.

The drive to Sioux Falls is almost eight hours from your home in Missouri. Luckily you didn’t have to make the trip often, but on occasions like this one, you could leave before noon and get to Bobby’s in time for dinner.

When you pull up to Bobby’s place, you can hear music blaring from the garage near the house. Grinning at the sound of Def Leppard, you park your truck and make your way over to the entrance to peek at Dean taking care of Baby. You call out a short, “Hey stranger,” and loudly knock on the garage door frame — hunters don’t like being sneaked up on for completely valid reasons.

“I thought I heard you pull up,” Dean shouts over his shoulder. He wipes his hands on a stain-streaked towel hanging off Baby’s hood and turns down the music a couple notches before pulling you into a bear hug.

“Hey Dean-o,” you smile into his shoulder, patting his back to signal for air. “Lookin’ all right for a guy who was dead for four months.”

“Har har.” He holds you at arm’s length for a second and gestures to your truck. “C’mon, let’s get your stuff inside.”

Sam greets you with a hug, Bobby with a squeeze on your shoulder. “Good to see you, Smalls.”

“You’re looking good, kiddo.” You smile wryly at Bobby’s endearment. He doesn't know it, but you're old enough to be his grandmother.

The four of you congregate in Bobby’s office, and the old man himself plops down behind the desk, with you and Sam setting up opposite of him and Dean propped against the window seat. Your eyes pass over the empty bottles of vodka and whiskey scattered over the desk, and you shoot Bobby a questioning glance. He avoids your eyes pointedly.

“So, the apocalypse. And it’s the real deal?” you start.

Dean shifts by the window. “Looks like it. It’s got demons, Lucifer, and angels, too. They yanked me outta Hell and need our help to stop Lucifer.” He pulls his left arm out of his flannel and shoves up the sleeve off his t-shirt. An angry bright red handprint glares at you from Dean’s shoulder.

Your jaw tenses. “Angels, huh?” you ask concisely. “On Earth?”

“Yeah. Apparently, they get a human meat suit like demons, but you can’t kill ‘em with the demon blade or any other weapon we got. Trust me, I tried.”

Of course Dean would try to gank an angel on sight. You almost want to laugh. There’s no way the boys have the kind of arsenal needed to take on angels. Not yet, anyway.

Sam jumps in. “And, to free Lucifer, Lilith has to break the 66 Seals keeping him in the cage that God threw him in after the fall. So the angels need our help to stop the Seals from being broken.”

“Oh, and they’re dicks,” Dean adds helpfully, pulling his sleeve back over the handprint.

You scoff and roll your eyes. “Do we know how many Seals have been broken?”

Dean shrugs. “Only a couple, according to Castiel.”

Your entire world screeches to a halt. You haven’t heard that name in decades. Haven’t thought about her as much as you used to either. But those three syllables, the sound of her name, has your heart racing and your mind reeling in shock.

“What did you say?”

Dean gestures to his shoulder. “Castiel. The angel that ‘raised me from perdition.’” He snorts and takes a swig of his beer.

You gulp. “Right.” There’s no way it’s a coincidence. There are hundreds of thousands of angels, millions even.

There is only one Castiel.

The boys are silent as you reach into your bag for your Bible, chock full of sticky notes, papers, and bookmarks. You flip through the pages slowly, mostly to give your head time to stop spinning. “Well,” you softly clear your throat, “let’s try to stop as many Seals as possible then.”

“Woah, woah. What about the angels?” Dean’s voice is guarded, skeptical. You glance at Sam and Bobby, both frowning at Dean.

“Dean, they’re trying to stop Lucifer. Enemy of our enemy, and all that,” Bobby rationalizes. Dean opens his mouth to protest.

Sam cuts him off. “You may think they’re dicks, but the devil would be a lot worse to deal with. You just got back from Hell, we’re all re-adjusting. Let’s not make things harder for ourselves.”

Dean pouts, and he looks back to you for backup.

“Uh, I’m with Dean,” you say, drawing a double take from Sam and a raised brow from Bobby. “I’m not so sure we should trust these guys just yet; let’s get a handle on the lore about angels so we know what we’re dealing with.”

You get a couple slow nods, though Sam’s is the most reluctant, and continue, “In the meantime, I have a few ideas about what some of the Seals could be. Need to check up on the details to be safe, but you guys can take a look at the news, see if there’s anything fishy happening out there. Anything that’s a corruption of the natural order could be a sign of a Seal that’s been broken. We need to keep track.”

Bobby grunts and pulls his phone out to make a call, presumably to Rufus and a few other hunters in his network who’d know what to look for. As he leaves the room, you see him reach into his jacket pocket, and the cap of his flask pokes out from his hand before he disappears around the corner. Sam nods, and ducks out with an armload full of your scribble-filled books, leaving you and Dean alone.

“Does the name Castiel ring a bell or something, kid?” Dean asks quietly, as Sam’s footsteps recede.

You shake your head emphatically, and seeing Dean’s eyebrow lift, you stop. “I, uh. It just sounds familiar from my research,” you lie. “I’ll look into it.”

Dean dips his chin once, slowly, eyeing you for a moment longer before heading back out to Baby. You watch and wait until the door slams and the house is silent, save for Bobby’s distant voice in his room. Then you let yourself panic.

\--

You wait until the boys call it a night and lumber up to their rooms. With the sound of the first snore, you grab your unpacked bags and, skipping the squeaky bottom step even in haste, sneak out to your car. Before you reach your truck, a rustling from the garage catches your attention. You jump and whirl around to see Dean leaning against the wall, peering at you from the shadows.

“So are you running from the apocalypse or from this Castiel?” Dean asks bluntly.

You shake your head at him. “Dean, I can explain—”

“Yeah, that’d be nice,” he retorts. “We really need you, kid. Seeing as you promised Sammy you’d help, and you’ve got the most religious lore know-how outta anybody we know.”

Your heart breaks a little. Sam and Dean are family to you now. But if she knew where they were, she’d soon discover where you were.

Sam and Dean would do anything to keep you safe, you had no doubts about that. But explaining to them that you were over one hundred years old, that you knew so much about angels because you’d studied them for a century and had even met them before, that you knew Castiel because you two were—

“You don’t need me here to help,” you say shakily. “I’ll call you guys when I’m home. I’m just as useful to you there as I am here.” You need your sigils and hex bags, anything to keep you out of sight. Dean has to understand, you can’t stay.

“Bullshit.” Dean’s eyes narrow. “Keep your secret for all I care. But you’re staying. Sammy needs you. We all need you. And you can’t stay locked up in your house forever. You’re safer here with us.”

“Dean—” your voice cracks. You can’t make him understand, can’t let her find you again, not after staying hidden for so long. You’re shaking so much you drop your bag, and it’s like a trigger for all your tears.

Dean strides toward you, wrapping you up in his arms while you break down. “Hey, shhh. S’okay kid, I got you. We got you. Let us help you give us our best shot, okay? We can’t do squat without you, but that doesn’t mean you have to do it alone.”

He ushers you back inside, where Sam is waiting. You’re too preoccupied with wiping tears and snot from your face to see their wordless communication, Dean passing you off to Sam to be comforted on the couch while he rounds up something for you to drink.

Sam strokes your hair and kisses your head as you calm down. Dean returns with a glass of water that you gulp down in seconds.

“Wanna talk about it?” Sam asks.

Your heart screams yes, begging for an outlet, for support and help, but your head shuts it down, shaking more firmly than you mean to. You do give your anxieties one small concession, whispering hoarsely, “Sam, can I stay with you?”

“‘Course, Smalls,” he mumbles. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

\--

Sam is rustling around his room when you stir awake the next morning. He shoots you a comforting grin when he sees your bleary eyes open. You stayed with him all night — his company calmed you down and allowed you to actually get some sleep after your panic attack.

“Want some coffee? Dean and Bobby are already hitting the books, but I wanted to be sure you were good first.”

You nod and he dips out of his room to help with breakfast. You stretch and meander to your room, and throw on a comfy pair of sweats and the shirt with really long sleeves that you love to wear when you’re researching. The 21st century definitely has its perks.

By the time you make your way down the stairs, the scent of fresh coffee has filled the air, already warming you up from the inside.

“Mornin’, kid,” Bobby grunts when you enter the kitchen. He pours you a mug, and you carry it over to where Dean and Sam are sitting at the table, four places set like a family meal with plates of bacon, sausage, toast, eggs, waffles, and even a bowl of fruit spread out for your very own breakfast buffet.

Bobby carries over the last dish — crispy hash browns — and gestures for you all to dig in. The next few minutes is a flurry of arms reaching, dishes and silverware clinking, and requests to pass the various condiments around the table.

Small talk consumes the first half of breakfast. Bobby updates you on some of the hunters you’ve worked with once or twice in the past, like Rufus and Garth, and you share your latest project: a database of monsters, their recognizable traits and features, and how to gank them.

“I don’t quite have the tech knowledge to make it user-friendly,” you admit. “It’s mostly been just compiling all the information, summarizing it, and organizing it. I’ll need some help later down the road with coding and making it accessible to other hunters.”

“Still, that’s awesome,” Sam says your name in awe. “I mean we have dad’s journal and the internet, but imagine how much faster any hunter could take care of monsters if we can figure out what it is from the get-go.”

“C’mon, Sammy we’re at breakfast. Try to keep your nerd-gasm in your pants.”

Sam throws Dean a look and Dean shoves a forkful of waffle in his mouth in response. “Id reary ish awshum do,” he garbles out around his chewing.

Bobby whacks the back of Dean’s head, reprimanding him for talking with his mouth full like he was “raised in a barn.” You share an impish look with Sam. They did grow up on the road, after all.

“So what’s the plan, Smalls?” Sam asks. “I know you and Dean are nervous about Castiel and the other angels, but can you give us any information on them? Or at least how we’re gonna make this an angel-free zone?”

You silently thank Sam for his tact, though you’re certain Bobby knows all about your runaway attempt from last night. At least you can pretend it didn’t happen.

“I’m going to set up some wardings that will get us off their radar,” you start. “Has Castiel, or any other angel, been here that you know of?”

Sam and Bobby shake their heads. Dean mutters, “Yes.”

“What?” the three of you exclaim in near unison.

“It was a dream, but the dream was in this house,” Dean explains. “It was the other night, before we called you, kid.”

Sam shakes his head, and you examine Dean, trying to calm your already-racing heart. “Was it Castiel?”

“Yes.”

“Then we need to move quickly. I need paint for the wardings. Bobby, I can make us some hex bags, but I need more ingredients than what I have with me.”

“Gimme a list,” he says.

You delegate quickly, sending Dean to get paint and Bobby and Sam to hunt down bones from a chicken's foot, unbroken spider eggs, lavender, hemp, and goofer dust. When Dean comes back with the paint, you set up near Bobby’s bay window and show Dean how to make the simplest of the sigils you know, emphasizing that even one wrong stroke would leave a hole in the warding for an angel to slip through.

Each passing second, you get more anxious, like you’re all racing against the clock, counting down the time until Castiel appears anyway. You shake yourself out of it. Dean’s right, they need you.

You do what you can now; you can worry later.


	2. Chapter 2

**_October 1908_ **

Castiel hadn’t intended to linger on earth after this assignment. In fact, she was following urgent orders: find the Word of God and report back to Anna after each sector of Earth had been searched. With God long gone and His Word hidden away from the angels, dissent was spreading amongst the ranks in Heaven. A faction was banding together, searching for a way to jump start the apocalypse and bring God back to Heaven.

As much as Castiel wished their Father would return, she knew that the extremist’s method was wrong, against His will. If only she could prove it to them, using His written Word. Of course, all the angels know the scripture, but the Bible is not what Castiel needs right now — she needs the Tablets.

Tablets that show God’s intent for human souls is not for them to be used for spells and sigils, but are to be left whole, intact.

So when a human with a bright soul, and wiser than most to the ways of God and His heavenly host, wandered across Castiel’s path, Castiel made the executive decision to delay her report back to Anna and see what this human had to offer.

That’s why Castiel finds herself waiting for you once again near the entrance to the park that you pass on your walk home from university. She watches as you come into view, skirts swishing around your ankles with each step, arms wrapped around new books from the library.

She smiles. Your soul has been shining brighter since she first met you, and Castiel likes to imagine it’s because she’s been visiting you more frequently these past few weeks. She falls into stride beside you, simultaneously lifting the veil that hides her from the human eye.

“Castiel,” you say cheerily and unsurprised by Castiel’s sudden appearance.

She beams and greets you by name in return. “How is your research coming along?”

You launch into the latest details of your findings, discussing the biblically-adjacent, infamous writings about Purgatory and ecstatically sharing the recent discovery of ancient texts that are rumored to expand on theologians’ knowledge of the apocalypse.

“Are you planning to incorporate these apocalyptic texts into your research on Purgatory?” Castiel is skeptical, but intrigued. It’s true that obscure details of the apocalypse are available for humans and angels alike to discover, but even Castiel hasn’t heard of this connection. Purgatory itself is a myth, even to angels and demons.

“It’s entirely possible they’re connected,” you say. “But I’m not going to find out the answer from you, am I?”

Castiel smiles with her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m afraid I can’t divulge information like that, regardless of whether your theory is true or not.”

“I’ll just have to find out for myself then.”

Castiel has been watching God’s most precious creation for millennia. She loves humans because He commands it, but Castiel is finding she admires humanity all on her own: they are curious and tenacious, full of creative ideas and so much heart. You wholly embody all of those attributes; maybe that’s why Castiel can’t stay away.

Your eyes twinkle at Castiel. “One of these days, you’ll share your secrets with me.”

She nods hesitantly. “Perhaps.”

Castiel walks with you the whole way home, asking questions about the strange metal boxes that rumble by on the road and the white and fluffy cake in the bakery window you claim is named angel food (Castiel thinks you’re just teasing her now — angels don’t eat), and she listens while you explain why the women who march past are wielding signs that say “Women bring all voters into the world: Let women vote!” and “Votes for Women.”

“You’re very curious today, Castiel,” you say. After passing the group of suffragettes, as you called them, your front door is within sight.

“I’ve watched humanity grow for a very long time,” she admits. “But I understand very little of why you do what you do.”

Castiel slows to a halt in front of the stairs to your home. You glance over your shoulder with a smile and motion for her to follow you.

“Come inside then. Maybe I can teach you.”

As she follows you inside, Castiel wonders if she’ll ever become accustomed to that strange tightening in her vessel’s chest that your smile seems to cause.

**_September 2008_ **

After your first week at Bobby’s, your cell phone starts ringing one night in the wee morning hours. You swipe at it on your bedstand to answer it before it wakes your grumpy host. Just as you pick up the phone you remember that he’s out with Rufus on a last-minute hunt, as are Sam and Dean.

“Hello?” you answer sleepily.

A woman, someone you don’t know, says your name. You don’t recognize the voice, and check the caller ID to see who’s calling. Sam.

“Who is this? Where’s Sam?” You’re wide awake now, gut wrenching at the idea of Sam unable to call you himself.

The woman speaks quickly. “It’s Ruby, I’m a friend of Sam’s. We’re in trouble, there’s demons everywhere and Sam and I can’t take them on alone.”

“Where’s Dean?” you demand, bolting out of bed to get dressed. Yesterday’s jeans are crumpled on the floor, and a flannel from the closet will have to do over your nightshirt. “He’s supposed to be with Sam.”

“They uhh, they split up earlier and he’s not answering his cell.” You’re sprinting down the stairs to your truck, boots in hand.

“Where are you? How far out and how much time do you have?”

“I think only a couple hours away. We’re just north of Omaha, at a bar called Frankie’s. I can hold them off for maybe an hour thirty, but it’s gonna be tight.”

You’re somehow already peeling out onto the highway, your truck shaking from revving up so quickly.

“I’ll be there in an hour.” When you hang up, your heart is racing faster than your truck. It’s late and there shouldn’t be many cops out, so you step on the gas a little harder.

Sam calls when you’re about five minutes out. After lecturing him for scaring you, you tell him to teach Ruby an exorcism if he can’t do it himself.

“Can’t. We have a demon we don’t want exorcised,” he pauses awkwardly, “yet. But we have the demon-killing knife.”

“I have sigils,” you reply, “and one that will kill all demons in a 100 foot radius. Can you get your hostage outside of that?”

“Too risky,” he said. “Can you scale it down?”

Even though you’re still scared shitless that Sam is hurt enough that someone else had to call you earlier, you manage to crack a joke. “Sure, Sammy. You know I love a challenge.”

Seconds later, your truck is skidding up to the bar where over a dozen men and women are clawing at the windows and doors, throwing themselves at the walls. A white line of salt frames the window ledges and more spills out from under the front door.

Your headlights draw the attention of some demons and they come running at you full speed. You rev up and speed ahead, the iron piping that’s hooked up to your front bumper burning the demons you slam into just before your tires roll over them.

“SAM!” you shout. “NOW!”

Your hands are already cut and bleeding, demon killing sigils carved into your palms. Good thing highways are long and straight and you can drive with your knees. You throw yourself out of your truck and slam one of your hands on the nearest demon. You turn away as his eyes and mouth flash an otherworldly yellow, and you throw your other hand up to catch another demon’s arm hurtling toward you.

Before he’s finished flashing, you spin and see a short, dark-haired woman stab another demon with a knife and its whole body flashes in the night. You swear you see its skeleton.

The body drops and the woman who must be Ruby pivots. You see her head whip toward Sam, who’s not too far. Sam, who’s staring down two demons in front of him with his hands outstretched. Sam, who’s got blood dripping from his lips down his chin. Sam, who’s exorcising two demons alone. Without Latin, without the knife or the Colt, and no spellwork in sight.

Sam, who’s smoking out two demons from their vessels and sending them to Hell just by looking at them.

A roar to your left pulls your attention away from your friend — your best friend who you apparently don’t know as well as you thought (not that you’re one to talk) — and you just barely block a punch before landing your palm on the demon’s forehead. You look away as the orange flashing fades to count what’s left; there are still at least half, maybe more. Sam’s focusing on just one now, and his nose is bleeding this time. Ruby has three surrounding her and looking past your truck’s blinding headlights are four shadows.

You don’t get to stare too long, because two more demons are sizing you up and trying to corner you against the wall of the bar. The blood on your hands has dried and you’re in a hurry, so you slice open your left leg, drop your knife, and drench both hands in the blood seeping out. These two are dodging you more, staying out of your reach, playing cat and mouse.

Finally, you fake one out and move to drop kick the one sneaking up behind you. He falls flat on his back and you slam your hands onto his chest. There’s a glow behind you too, and it’s Ruby stabbing the other demon with the knife. He falls to the ground like a log.

“Thanks,” you huff, hoisting yourself off the ground. There’s a thud to your left and you both whirl toward it. The last demon Sam was exorcising is crumpled at his feet.

You rush past Ruby to Sam and launch yourself in his arms when he faces you.

“Woh-oah, there,” Sam grunts when you collide with him.

You whack his head gently, but he still groans like it hurts. “What were you thinking, splitting up from Dean and taking on a whole pack of demons?”

Sam wipes his face off with his sleeve, looking sheepish. “Didn’t realize there’d be that many of them.”

“And what was that about?” you ask, nodding at his hand. His jaw twitches as his eyes flicker to something behind you.

“I’ll uhhh fill you in later.” You look over your shoulder and see Dean storming over. You glance the other way, but Ruby’s gone, or hiding. You’re not sure.

Dean stalks right past you and gets in Sam’s face, despite it being a few inches higher than his. “Anything you wanna tell me, Sam? I thought you kicked this psychic crap!”

You take large steps backwards, retreating to the general vicinity of your truck. You’re close to the boys, very close, but one place you never want to be is between them when shit’s about to hit the fan. It seems like it might be a long-winded fight too. With how mad Dean is and how unsurprised he seems by Sam’s… whatever it is, you gather this has been a point of contention for some time now. So you decide to wait it out in the truck. Sam might need a ride later.

You don’t make it inside the truck, you don’t even make it to the door; you turn and lock eyes with a pair of startling blue. They’re captivating, and all you can do for a long time is watch as their owner — an extremely handsome man — stares at you. Stares into you, maybe. You’re like a bystander, just watching while he drinks you in, taking his fill which might just be limitless.

You don’t know how long you stand there, but it’s long enough that Sam and Dean quiet down and notice the strange stare down you’ve found yourself on the receiving end of. You hear Sam whisper to Dean as they approach the pair of you. Though you couldn’t make out Sam’s words, they’re close enough now that you hear Dean reply, “Yeah, that’s him.”

Sam beelines for you and blocks the stranger from your view. More importantly, it seems, it blocks the stranger’s view of you.

“Hey, go inside for a minute okay?” Sam’s hand on your shoulder is firm, but his voice wavers saying your name.

“What?” You’re lost and disoriented now that you’re not gawking at the man’s eyes anymore. Sam’s face is etched in frown lines, and he tosses an unreadable look over his shoulder. “Sam, what’s going on?” you ask, shaking your head a bit to clear it.

Your name echoes in the air, the voice seemingly bouncing off the night sky above, and it chills you. Sam is pushed aside with a grunt, and then the man is standing unnervingly close for a stranger, not even two feet away. He stares at you again, with his deep, dark blue eyes that are more piercing up close.

“Hey,” Dean hollers, making you look over. “What the hell are you doing, Castiel!”

Castiel? You double-take, tearing your eyes from an agitated Dean to the man in front of you. You’re frozen in space, in time, while Castiel’s eyes are locked on yours. She — he is here.

He found you.

This new vessel is so different, but so familiar. It’s a man this time, wearing a suit and trench coat with his hair mussed, the same dark brown shade she used to have. You aren’t sure why you didn’t notice before now, but his eyes are the same, too. Maybe time has compromised your memory, but they feel the same. Like the ocean, stormy and chaotic, yet somehow immediately putting you at ease, despite your shock.

“Castiel,” you breathe, so low that only he can hear you.

Castiel’s eyes light up, and his face warms with the faintest of smiles. He shifts forward, his arm reaching out. Towards you. For you.

“Don’t.”

His eyes darken immediately and his hopeful smile drops with his arm. You shift your weight back a step. His eyes flash at the movement, but Dean pulls his attention from you soon after.

“How the hell do you know her name?” Dean asks. Castiel ticks his head to the side and examines Dean.

“Sh—He’s an angel, Dean. How do you think?” you scoff.

And Castiel’s eyes are back on you, searching intensely. They dart to your bloodied hands and still-bleeding thigh, narrowing at the wounds like they offend him personally.

Dean shoulders his way in between you and Castiel, and draws Castiel’s attention back to him. Dean looks unconvinced, eyes flashing between the two of you. “So, you’re telling me you can just recognize every single human being on the planet?”

“There are only six billion of you, Dean,” Castiel responds stoically. Hearing his voice again, knowing that this is the same Castiel from all those years ago, rattles you. It’s deep and gravelly, so different from what his prior vessel sounded like. “Hardly a large number.”

You fail to hold back a snort at his matter-of-fact tone paired with the context of his words. In that way, he sounds just like her. Dean glares at you, but Castiel glows.

It’s not her face, but the expression feels the same, warming you up like you did the right thing. It feels comfortable. It feels like when you first met Castiel, like you’re being beckoned back to where you belong. Except now you know being drawn to him is like being a bug drawn to the light. You can’t give in to his pull. And as quickly as that warmth had come, it goes. Your expression stiffens, closing you off from him. You look away so you don’t see his face fall.

“All right, well the emergency team up is over,” Dean snaps, annoyed. “We’re heading back to Bobby’s.”

He gestures curtly for Sam to head over to your truck, and you move to follow.

“No,” Castiel says, taking a step toward you, and even out of the corner of your eye he’s as fierce and unyielding as you remember.

“I thought you weren’t here to perch on my shoulder?” Dean asks suspiciously.

Castiel looks at Dean, tearing his eyes away from you like it pains him to do so, and seems to remember that you are not alone.

“Of course not, Dean, but we’ll have work for you soon. You’ll need to be ready.” You hear a change in tone; it’s subtle, but it’s there. Sam and Dean don’t notice his slip up.

“So we’ll be ready.” Dean’s tone is cold.

You try to keep your eyes away, but at the last minute you chance a glance. Of course he’s looking at you. Trying to tell you something he won’t say aloud, something you don’t want him to say in front of Sam and Dean.

Dean cuts in front of you, effectively ending the conversation, and once he’s past, Castiel is gone.

**_December 1908_ **

With hot chamomile tea in hand and a long day of classes and research at the library finally behind you, you’re ready to settle down for the evening. Classes were infuriating (as they often were), but today was especially so with midterm presentations quickly approaching.

The professor had requested that each graduate student pair up with another to practice presenting and to provide constructive criticism to their partner. Unfortunately for you, your partner seems more interested in what he has to say about his own project than what your feedback is to him, let alone what your project even covers.

And so here you are, days from your presentation with no formal feedback and a partner who won’t listen. You briefly wonder what it would be like to have Castiel as your partner, or even in your class.

The thought catches you off guard, and you let out an amused chuckle at the next one. Castiel, an angel, sitting in an advanced religious studies course. Silly as it is, you still imagine it. In your last few interactions she has challenged you more than any of your professors with her questions and inspired new ideas and theories with her own answers to your queries. Maybe tomorrow she will meet you at the park again (you always seem to run into her there; four times in the last week alone!) and she could listen to your presentation.

You reprimand yourself. Who are you to call an angel of the Lord to come listen to your master’s presentation? Surely she has more important things to do. Shaking the idea from your mind, you flick off the kitchen light and meander up to your room.

Once you’re through the door, you turn on the light and nearly drop your tea with a yelp at the sight of Castiel perched on the edge of your bed. Within milliseconds, she is in front of you, her strong, delicate fingers supporting your hand (and tea), her eyes piercing into your own.

You gulp down your nerves and, steadying your breath, say, “Castiel.”

She greets you in return, her lips smirking as they form your name.

“Wh…what are you doing here? You can’t just appear unannounced in my home,” you start. “You frightened me.”

Castiel’s beautifully proud expression immediately melts into concern. “I did not mean to alarm you. I thought you wished to see me again.”

“I…,” you falter. She’s not entirely wrong.

Castiel pulls away, her face turning stoic. “I should leave.”

“Wait, Castiel!” you blurt out. Blushing at her raised brows, you rush to explain, “You don’t have to leave. I was hoping to see you tomorrow anyway, but I just wasn’t expecting you to… I mean, how did you get into my room anyway?”

“I flew.”

She’s joking. She has to be, because your windows are shut and your room has walls for heaven’s sake and she doesn’t even have wings.

“You don’t believe me.” Castiel looks amused, her lips quirking up into a smile again.

After a beat, you reply, “I just. I’ve never seen your wings before.”

“My wings exist on another plane, they would be quite cramped in your room.”

That takes you a minute to wrap your mind around. You nod, lacking a coherent response. When you finally get around to setting your tea on the bedside table and facing Castiel again, you realize you’re only dressed in your nightgown, a thin white cotton dress that isn’t too revealing. Except that you’ve only ever seen Castiel in public where at least three layers of clothes cover your figure.

With nothing in your hands to fidget with, you take a seat on the side of your bed, dropping your hands in your lap, and watch Castiel gracefully sit next to you. Her blue, blue eyes sweep over you, and you refrain from turning away or shielding yourself with your arms.

“I have always wondered about the comfort humans find in clothing,” Castiel says unexpectedly, but obviously addressing your discomfort. “Clearly, it began after the fall when Adam and Eve found shame in their nakedness, but I wonder why even through the millennia this silly little habit has stuck.”

She reaches out, and you’re frozen with shock as her hand caresses your face and the backs of her fingers trail down your neck and collarbone, before reaching one of your breasts. You all but jump away when a whimpering sound sneaks out of your throat and into the air between you.

Castiel cocks her head to the side and furrows her brows.

“Castiel, we can’t,” your voice is cracking and there’s heat pooling in your belly and you feel wetness on your undergarments. “You’re a— I’m— this isn’t proper.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“You’re an angel, how do you not know… we’re not together and even if we were, it’s illegal and dangerous!”

You’re panicking, if only a little. Of course, Castiel is one of the most stunning women you’ve ever seen (she’s an angel, after all), and even if you’re in your own home, someone outside could have seen through the window with the lights on and then word would spread, and you’re already a social outcast as a scholarly woman, but your reputation would be irreparable if your colleagues thought you had another woman as a lover—

Castiel reaches out and you flinch, but she is undeterred. She grasps your nearest wrist with one hand and places two fingers gently against your forehead with the other. Immediately, you can breathe again and a blanket of calm washes over you. After a moment, you blink at Castiel.

“What was that?” you breathe in awe.

“You were panicking, so I used some of my grace to put you at ease,” she explains. The rest of her fingers unfurl and they drift up to your hair, brushing it away from your face, gliding gently through the strands.

Her hand stops when she reaches the nape of your neck, and despite the calming effect of her grace, your heart jumps when she pulls you closer to her.

“I may not have the best understanding of humans and your customs,” her voice is musical and you’re yearning for her to keep speaking, “and I know my Father’s laws, but I also know humans are His finest creation and He values love above all else.”

After a moment’s consideration, she continues, “A… friend once told me that humans are good and true. He asked me, ‘How could anyone know them and not love them?’” Castiel leans in closer until her nose is brushing yours and every breath she takes steals some of yours away. She whispers your name, “I hardly know you. But I want to, just so I can love you.”

Your heart nearly beats out of your chest, and you surge forward to meet Castiel’s lips. She’s soft and warm and maybe a little unsteady at first, and the thought crosses your mind that maybe Castiel has never kissed anyone before. Not that you have either; it takes a few moments for you both to establish a comfortable rhythm.

And then it’s over as quick as it began. Castiel is pulling away and standing up abruptly, pulling you with her. But her hands are still trailing across your skin, along your waist, and your nightgown is inching its way up your body. You can’t even pay attention to it, because Castiel’s eyes haven’t left yours since she pulled away from the kiss.

The intensity behind her eyes makes you want to curl up and hide from their attentiveness, but you can’t look away. She’s holding your gaze hostage, her eyes telling you fervently, wordlessly that you are all she ever wants to look at.

Castiel pulls your gown over your head, and as her eyes roam your skin, she guides you back to the bed to lie down. When she covers your body with hers, you’re caught off guard by her lack of clothing.

Her lips trail across your skin, peppering kisses everywhere, stalling at your breasts for some time while she focuses on your nipples, until she slowly works her way down. Your breathing becomes quick and shallow as you watch her mouth hover around your hips, laying kisses and gentle nips across your body.

“Castiel,” you sound wrecked, croaking out her name like you’re begging for water. She locks eyes with you, and you squirm under her scrutiny. While maintaining eye contact, she drops a light kiss on the lips of your cunt.

You groan at the sensation, but the sound is cut off with a gasp as Castiel drags her tongue through your sex.

“Cas,” you breathe, your fingers wrapped up in her wavy hair, gripping her closer.

Castiel stills. You shift, worrying you had done something wrong. She raises her head from the apex of your thighs, eyes wide and pupils blown wide with arousal.

“Please,” you try to keep your voice from cracking and fail miserably. “Don’t stop.”

Her mouth twists up into a proud smile and she vows, “I won’t.”

She doesn’t.

Her tongue delves deeper inside you, thrusting purposefully while her nose brushes your clit, drawing loud whimpers out of you. Your thighs press against either side of Castiel’s head and she groans against your cunt.

Minutes later (but it feels like hours), you’re almost in tears. Your muscles are shaking from tensing and bracing yourself, your hips are grinding ceaselessly against Castiel’s face, and you can hardly breathe from focusing on the pleasure shooting through you.

“Cas!” you cry out just before the waves ebb and air fills your lungs with precious oxygen. You lie there, feeling utterly spent when she comes up from your hips.

Her lips meet yours, chin and mouth still wet with you. You draw her in, letting her hands continue to roam and explore your body.

“You are beautiful,” she says, punctuating each word with the press of her lips on the corner of your mouth.

**_September 2008_ **

Even after all these years, his connection to you is still so strong.

Castiel hasn’t felt emotions like these in decades. Rage? Fury? He’s livid, for sure. He remembers that burning ache in his vessel’s chest that spreads like fire to its stomach and makes him clench its jaws.

The fire isn’t unlike the warmth you bring him. Yours is softer though, not a blazing heat; like the feel of the sun on skin during a clear day.

He feels you before he sees you.

When Dean Winchester woke from his journey back in time, Castiel was there waiting for him, and he told Dean what the angels knew about Sam — how he drank the blood of demons. The Righteous Man demanded that Castiel take him to his brother, and obedient Castiel did what Heaven expects him to do and he complied with Dean’s wishes.

They landed in the midst of demons, the sounds of other scuffles echoing in the background. Dean launched into action, like the soldier he was trained to be. Castiel was able to smite two demons before Dean roughed his up enough for Castiel to get near and smite it, too. Dean then ran off toward his brother, the abomination.

That’s when Castiel feels you. His human.

His eyes zero in on Sam Winchester facing off against his brother at the moment. Traces of your soul are aimlessly floating around Sam’s chest, the same glow he watched slowly dissipate from around his own vessel when you left him. The Boy with the Demon Blood, Castiel spits in his mind, has seen you and held you, has touched what is his and his alone. There’s a smattering of your essence leading away from Sam, and you’re standing there just at the end of the trail. Like the Fates led Castiel to you with their threads.

Castiel doesn’t mean to fly over to you; he’s as drawn in as the first time he met you. There’s no spark of recognition in your eyes when you catch sight of him. Castiel reminds himself he has a new vessel now; that’s to be expected. But there’s something. Your gaze is caught in his, and Castiel doesn’t plan on letting you look away.

You are beautiful, and he is glad to see that time has been good to you. Some things have changed; your hair and the clothes you wear are all modern, but what matters has stayed the same. Your soul is still blindingly bright, but imperceptible to human eyes — which is fitting if you ask Castiel. They do not deserve the sight.

He wants to wrap himself around you and never allow you to stray from him again.

His time is cut unbearably short when the Winchesters interrupt. The warmth flooding through Castiel boils hot when the abomination puts his hand on your shoulder.

Then you speak.

His heart lurches toward you. He says your name and shoves Sam to the side so he can see you again, and watch your lips move when you talk. He closes the distance between you until he’s nearly wrapped up in the light reflecting from your soul. You’re leaning forward imperceptibly, Castiel wonders if you even realize you’re doing it. He can feel his grace thrumming restlessly under his vessel’s skin.

Dean interrupts, and Castiel would smite him and his brother on the spot were it not for Dean’s role in Heaven’s plan. Your eyes flit over to Dean when he calls Castiel’s name. Castiel can almost see the gears turning when you meet his gaze again. You were always so quick, so clever.

“Castiel.” Everything that’s been winding him up and setting his grace on edge finally stops when you breathe his name. Tranquility seeps through him with the echo of your voice, like you are all that he needed to hear. His vessel relaxes now that the angel inside isn’t on the verge of bursting out of it.

He reaches for you—of course he does, you are his—but you stop him with a word, and Castiel feels cold and hard and hollow. Dean keeps nagging to the side of him, so Castiel throws him a glance, hoping to shut him up.

“Sh—He’s an angel, Dean. How do you think?”

Castiel’s head spins with everything you don’t say aloud in your retort. You remember his former vessel. You’re familiar enough to be friendly with the Winchesters. You don’t want Dean to know about your past. Why else would you deflect?

Your eyes are elsewhere; you’re looking at Dean and Castiel wants to kill him for it.

At least Castiel’s view of you is unobstructed. You’re a vision, you always have been; he takes his time looking over all of you. Sigils, ones he doesn’t remember teaching you, are etched into your palms. There’s a swell of pride in his chest at your resourcefulness.

But his stomach drops at the sight of your wounds. You’re bleeding; blood is caking your hands and left leg, there are bruises on the parts of your skin he can see, and a fresh cut on your arm is glistening with your blood. You were fighting and in danger, thanks to Sam Winchester. He wasn’t here, he was almost too late. His hands twitch, aching to lay on you, to heal you.

Dean’s being a nuisance again so Castiel’s retort is honest and short because he’s distracted. He always is at least a little with you around. He hadn’t set out to make you laugh, but when you do, it makes everything feel right again.

When Dean tries to take you from him, Castiel slips up. Dean doesn’t notice, only throws Castiel’s words back in his face. Petulant human. He tries to speak to you one last time before the Winchesters steal you away. And it is stealing. They have no right to take you from him.

He quietly hums an unwavering thought, hoping you can read it in his eyes.

O Zod I En. O Zod I En. O Zod I En.

Mine. Mine. Mine.


	3. Chapter 3

_September 2008_

“So who’s this Ruby chick?” you ask as soon as Sam hops back into your truck outside the hotel he and Dean had stayed the night before. He tosses his bag from the hotel into the back seat and huffs at you.

“Hey, would you rather ride all the way back to Bobby’s with Dean?” You’re a little hurt that Sam is keeping something from you — you have your own secrets too, but it stings. Dean’s Impala peels out onto the highway in front of you, engine roaring and tires leaving behind skid marks on the blacktop. “You guys didn’t say a word to each other on the drive back to the hotel. Everything okay?”

“No. Everything isn’t okay.” Sam sounds tired.

You let him sit in silence for a few minutes. After a while you prod, “Sam? You know I’m here for you. Whatever Dean’s mad about, whatever you’re dealing with. I’m on your side.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Sam chews on your words, shifting in his seat. Finally, “Ruby is a demon.”

Oh! _Oh_. “Wow, uhhh. Okay. So she’s the one you didn’t want to exorcise or have me blast with my sigil then?”

“Yeah, uh. Remember Azazel?”

“Demon that killed your mom and dad, right?” you ask softly. “Yeah, I remember you all hunting him with John for a bit there before he… before.”

Sam clears his throat and shifts in his seat again. “Long story short? Whole reason Azazel killed mom was because she caught him feeding me his blood.” He ignores your sharp breath and continues on. “And because I have this demon blood in me…”

“You can exorcise demons with your mind,” you finish. The image of Sam back at the bar, nose bleeding, while he choked the smoke out of two demons haunts you. Everything about it is so much more sinister now. “So where does Ruby come in? Is she like training you?”

When you glance over, he stares out the window to avoid your eyes.

“I need to use these psychic powers to get stronger. So I can defeat Lilith. And I can’t get stronger unless I’m going straight to the source.”

“And Ruby is your source.” The pieces are falling together. “Dean’s mad because you’re drinking demon blood — Ruby’s blood. Is that what you’ve been doing the past few months?”

His silence is confirmation enough. “Sam, I get it. You’re trying to take down Lilith the only way you know how. It’s better than just running around and playing defense on all these Seals. Dean was gone, what were you supposed to do?”

You reach over and grab his hand. He squeezes back tight.

“You know how Dean is. It’ll take time, but he’ll cool off.”

“Dean’s stubborn on a good day. Listen, it doesn’t matter if he thinks what I’m doing is wrong or right. I don’t even know if it’s right. But when I smoke out those demons, I’m saving people.” Sam’s voice breaks at the end.

“Saving people, hunting things,” you say reassuringly.

“The family business,” Sam finishes with snort.

“As far as I’m concerned, you’re doing what you’ve always done. Who knows how long it’ll take the angels to stop Lilith.”

“The angels,” Sam sounds upset. “I didn’t even— how are you? After seeing Castiel?”

Your grip on the steering wheel tightens, and the truck jumps over the speed limit for a few seconds.

“I take it you’re not okay.”

You’re quiet for another beat. “I wish I was.”

“I’m here for you too, y’know?” You can feel Sam’s eyes boring into you to convey the full extent of what he means. You know it’s true. He has always been there for you. The last few years, Sam’s gotten you out of your warded home more times than you can remember, which is saying something compared to the first few decades on your own.

He kept you company during your bad days at Stanford after he saw you wake up from a nap shaking and crying because of a nightmare. He never asked what it was, but he offered to study at your apartment, and he’d sleep on futon most nights so you wouldn’t be alone. You know in your heart that he would understand everything if you told him: your real age, your past with Castiel, why you kept it a secret.

Sam’s voice gently breaks through your thoughts. “You were gonna run the other night, and I don’t know what it is you’ve found in your research that’s made you so afraid of angels, but you’re safe with us.”

You’re not safe. Not anymore. Not with Castiel back and working with your best friends to stop Lucifer from being freed. You want to laugh at how insane it all sounds.

“Dean doesn’t trust them yet, and I know you’re not their number one fan either. But they’re angels. How bad could they even be?” He’s so trusting and naive, it breaks your heart.

You finally speak. “Their moral high ground isn’t based off of good and bad, Sam. It’s about right and wrong.” You take a steadying breath. “And just because they’re doing what they think is right doesn’t make them good. You should remember that from Legal Ethics with Horner.”

“That was like five years ago,” Sam retorts.

“You act like you weren’t top of the class,” you quip, effectively shutting him up.

A sign for Sioux Falls lights up as you drive by it, and the truck is quiet while you take the exit and navigate to Bobby’s.

Sam ruminates on your words for a few miles. “So you don’t think angels are good,” he says.

Not in your experience. They can be, you want to say. Some are. But you don’t want to give Sam false hope. Those high expectations would only lead to a long and dangerous fall.

You want him to keep a safe distance from them, like you should have.

“All I’m saying is that I don’t want them near me. If I had my way I wouldn’t have them near you and Dean either.”

Sam doesn’t press any further.

Your truck rumbles down Bobby’s drive and parks beside the Impala just as the sun is rising. Dean’s door is shut when you get inside, and he’s sleeping, judging by the soft snores coming through the wood.

Sam asks if you need company while you sleep, seemingly deducing that your encounter with Castiel would be cause for more nightmares, but you decline and bid him goodnight. You know you won’t be resting anytime soon.

You toss and turn in bed for an hour or so, waiting until Sam is snoring in the next room, before walking through the house and checking every warding three times. You create a pile of new hex bags, pore over your books for protection sigils you might have missed. You set up new ones, and go over the whole house one more time.

You keep your hands occupied and your mind busy all night. You don’t think about angels with pretty blue eyes and dark hair. But when the skin around your wrists starts prickling with the ghost of her touch, you get up and check the wardings again.

_March 1909_

The rustling of wings echoes down the hall, and you call out for Castiel to join you in the sitting room. Papers and books are scattered across the table and the seat next to you, so you clear some room away for your angel.

Castiel immediately strides toward you, helping you stand and pulling you into a tight embrace. She inhales deeply and presses her lips against your temple. “I missed you.”

She holds you at arm’s length, letting her hands trail down your arms to your wrists where her thumb slowly circles the soft skin under your palm.

“You were gone for so long,” you murmur.

She sighs. “Matters in Heaven are escalating. Malachi is doubling down on their recruitment efforts. I’m unsure if my brothers and sisters are going to be able to hold off the rebellion for long.”

A soft, sad smile pulls at your lips. “Castiel, you know you will always have brothers and sisters who would rally to your side, to His side, no matter the cost. The rebellion will be stopped, one way or another.”

Castiel smiles contentedly at you. “You humans… it never ceases to amaze me how small you are individually,” she runs the back of her hand across your cheek, “and yet you have more faith than all of heaven.”

“Cas,” you sigh. She dips in to kiss you, her lips dancing over yours. It doesn’t take long for her fingers to slowly pluck open the buttons lining the spine of your dress and drag the bulky fabric from your shoulders.

Her hands glide gently down your waist and hips, pushing the dress off so it pools at your feet. You return the favor, and her dress crumples to the floor next to yours. You wrap your arms around Castiel’s shoulders as she lays you back down on the sofa.

“How do you do it?” she asks, eyes wide with wonder.

“Do what?”

“Believe. You make it appear so effortless. How is your faith so strong?” She aimlessly thumbs at your skin, like drawing circles on a blank canvas.

Your heart jumps into your throat when you meet her eyes. The blue is heavy, quick to pull you in deep and wrap around you.

“How can I not have faith,” you breathe, “when I have my angel watching over me.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle as she smiles. Her kisses are sweet, but insistent, like she can’t wait another second for you to close the distance. Her hands slide up under your slip, teasingly tracing your hip bone. With a delicate brush of her thumb and the flick of her warm tongue on your lip, Castiel has you crying out for her.

_October 2008_

Less than a week passes by before Sam and Dean drag you out on a hunt with them, desperate to get you out of the house and out of your head. You would have put up a fight about it too, except they agreed to bring along as many hex bags as you wanted. (Dean drew the line at marking up Baby with sigils.)

“So how is this a mass haunting?” you ask, placing the last hex bag in the bedside drawer next to the customary Bible even this crappy one-star motel has on hand.

Dean shrugs. “Beats me. But how else do you explain three cases of dead guys popping back home for a visit?”

“I don’t know, maybe the local reaper is slacking?” you shrug and flop onto the bed near Sam’s feet. He shifts to make room while clicking away on his laptop.

“So get this,” Sam starts. “Each of the hauntings happened to families who lost someone in the last month.”

“So they’re all recent deaths? What were the causes?”

“Let’s see. Lester Jones was in a car accident. He was the first haunting a few weeks ago, right after his funeral. Second one was…” Sam pauses and frowns.

“What?”

“Ashley Davidson. Also a car accident. Her funeral was the 8th, and her family was haunted the next day.”

You and Dean glance at each other while Sam pulls up the next case. He snorts.

“Let me guess, death by car accident and a haunting after the funeral?” you ask.

Sam nods while Dean thinks aloud, “That’s a little too coincidental to be a reaper. So what’s left, a haunted car the ghosts are trying to warn the families about?”

“But they’d all drive different cars,” you argue. “These deaths barely happened a month apart. Sam, where were all these accidents?”

“Looks like there’s a country club in town, and all three vics were leaving there when they had their accidents.”

“Well I say we go check it out,” Dean hops up and grabs his suit, then heads into the bathroom to change.

Later, after questioning the owner and the vics, the three of you decide that staking out the country club that night is the next best move.

“You can keep watch while Sam and I go inside to check it out. Maybe there’s something we missed in the building that’ll give us a clue,” Dean says after an hour of nothing happening.

“Hey, wait!” you say just as he moves to get out of the car. “Hex bags?”

Dean looks at Sam, exasperated. You raise a brow at them, and they both reach into their coat pockets to show you the little cloth bundles, Sam with a reassuring smile. You nod, and they leave you alone with Baby in the far corner of the parking lot.

Almost an hour later, you’re counting the parking spaces in the lot to pass the time when you see a large shadow lumbering toward the car. One of the streetlights shows you it’s Dean heading back to you from the clubhouse. He slides into the driver’s seat next to you, giving you a once-over before shutting the Impala door.

“Dean? Did you all find anything? Where’s Sam?”

“Sam’s inside, checking out some files on the place.” Dean looks at you again. “We got nothing so far, but he wanted me to come check on you, see how you were doing.”

“I’m fine,” you mumble. Dean goes to start the car. “Woah hey, are you trying to get us caught? Baby’s loud as hell, Dean. Wait until Sam’s done, then we can head out of here.”

“Cool it, sweetheart,” Dean chuckles. “No one’s gonna hear us way out here.”

Your gut twists. Dean has never once called you sweetheart. You shift in your seat, imperceptibly leaning toward the passenger door. Something’s not right.

“Oops. Guess I slipped up,” not-Dean sighs. His green eyes flash silver just before he lunges at you. You have the passenger door open, but not-Dean, shifter Dean has your jacket tightly gripped in his hands. He’s pawing at you, trying to grab hold of something more than your sleeve.

You twist your arm out and let him yank your jacket off the rest of the way so you can run. Footsteps pound on the asphalt behind you, and you know you won’t be able to outrun the shifter and beat it to Sam and Dean in the clubhouse.

Sam and Dean. The shifter must have gotten to Dean first to change into him. You hope— no. You know they’re both okay. They have to be.

You swear and veer off the parking lot into the nearby woods. It’s not as thick or as dense as you’d like, but that’s to be expected out by a country club. You dart around the trees, listening for the shifter behind you.

Circling back around to Baby is your best hope. Dean has silver bullets in the trunk, but you doubt there’s going to be a loaded gun ready for you. This was supposed to be a haunting case; no one was prepared for a corporeal monster.

Dean’s voice echoes through the trees. “C’mon sweetheart, no need to hide from me. I wouldn’t hurt a pretty, little thing like you. Your buddies, on the other hand, are trying to stop my side gig. Can’t have that, can I?”

He sounds far away, like he might be waiting just a few feet into the woods. Watching for you. Taking a chance, you peer out from your hiding spot behind a tree.

You can’t see him.

“Gotcha, sweetheart.”

Your heart jumps and you run from the voice behind you as it laughs, bellowing in Dean’s voice after you. “You can run, but you can’t hide! I haven’t had a good chase like this in years, babydoll.”

The ground is starting to slope downhill, and you lose your footing more than twice. You keep trying to circle back to the Impala, but this shifter is keeping himself between you and the car.

“Don’t know why you’re so scared,” he drawls in Dean’s voice. “You hunters act like you don’t go around murdering anything that goes bump in the night. It’s not so fun when you’re the ones being hunted, eh?”

An unearthed root snags your foot, and you tumble to the ground, bracing your impact with an outstretched hand. White-hot pain shoots up your arm and strains your muscles, and you let out a shout.

“There you are.” The shifter stands over you and coos your name, fetching it from the recesses of Dean’s memories. Dean’s voice sounds poisonous in the monster’s mouth. You curl in on yourself, hunched on the ground and cradling your arm. “You know, the boring part about keeping my operation under the radar is I can’t get too creative with the kills. Someone being carved up gets attention from hunters like you. Guess three accidents is one too many to be a coincidence, huh?”

He lifts a foot off the ground and smashes it into your injured arm. You scream in agony, vision blacking out from the pain, and you hope and pray that Sam, Dean, anyone hears you.

The shifter is laughing, and then he isn’t. The pressure on your arm disappears, and you immediately sit up to scamper backwards away from the danger, but as your vision clears, you see he’s pinned up against a tree by his throat, feet dangling and kicking.

“I should kill you right now.” Hearing Castiel’s voice, low and thunderous, makes your heart stop. “But that would be too merciful.”

Castiel pulls the shifter back from the tree, hand wrapped firmly around his neck, and slams him back into it. The shifter cries out, and you think the ground shakes the next time Castiel rams his body against the wood. Again. And again. Until you can hear the crack of his skull with each collision, and see blood running down his face. Castiel drops the Dean-doppelgänger to the ground and holds him in place with a foot to his back.

The shifter is squirming, shouting when Castiel grabs one of his arms and yanks it out of place. The unnatural angle makes your stomach queasy, but the shock keeps you from backing away from the scene. Castiel repeats the process with the next arm; you can see not-Dean’s face twist in anguish when he cries out.

And you know it’s not Dean. But seeing his face so painfully contorted and hearing his voice like this — it’s disturbing.

The angel moves to the monster’s legs, and before he can grab one, you cry out, “Castiel, please stop! Just kill him!”

Castiel freezes and turns enough to meet your eyes. He stares at you for a moment, his hard, blue eyes searching yours. You see a flash of silver slide out of his sleeve and then he’s ramming his angel blade into the shifter’s back.

You don’t tear your eyes away from the shifter’s face — even in death, it looks so much like Dean — until Castiel pulls his blade from its back and walks into your line of sight.

When he gets close, Castiel reaches for you; it’s to help you up, but your mouth dries at the thought of Castiel’s hands on you again. You wonder for a moment how he found you, how he got around the hex bags in your… your jacket. The one that’s back in the Impala.

“You’re hurt.” There it is. That softness in his voice pulls at your heart. It takes everything in your willpower to stamp those old, forgotten feelings down. He says your name, gentle but insistent.

Some things never change.

“I’m fine.” You brush him off and try to stand on your own. The uneven ground gives you more trouble than you want to let on, and he notices.

Of course Castiel notices.

He crouches near you and holds out his hand for yours. You don’t mean to meet his eyes, but he’s right there and you don’t know where else to look. They’re dark and hungry, pupils wide from the adrenaline of the kill.

You take a deep breath and place your good hand in his. Castiel stands with you, slow and steady. Then you feel it. His grace hums through you, searching out your wounds to heal them, running through your veins, and crawling along your nervous system. It’s jarring, catapulting you through memories you repressed long ago.

“Stop,” you yank your hand away and immediately his grace is pulled from you. You try not to miss it.

He frowns and his brows furrow and wrinkle above the bridge of his nose, not unlike his former vessel. You’re still adjusting to seeing bits of her shine through him.

“Why are you here, alone?” he asks.

“I’m working a case with Sam and Dean.” Your tone is somewhat combative, if only because you don’t know why you feel the need to explain yourself to him. Mentioning the boys grounds you, keeps you from panicking at the fact that he found you again, and you turn back to the country club.

“Then where are they?” His voice is deep, disgruntled and on edge from the fight.

“Inside, maybe, I don’t know. The shifter got to them first.” Trekking up the hill is already taking the wind out of you. “I need to go make sure they’re okay.”

“Wait,” he calls out and, for some reason, you do. “I’m glad I found you.”

You’re not, but it beats being shifter bait. For the time being, anyway.

“You’re not going to speak to me?” You make it two steps, before Castiel adds, “You’re not going to explain yourself?” and has you spinning on your heels.

You glare at him, bold and vicious. “Explain myself?” Your voice is steady, unwavering, and in the quiet of the woods it echoes off the trees, but it is nothing compared to the look Castiel sends back, reprimanding and making you feel like the vulnerable woman that had so easily bent to his—her will.

You are not that woman anymore.

“I don’t owe you anything, Castiel. I never did.” You hold your ground, unflinching, and it surprises him. Good.

He shifts gears. “Where have you been? I searched for you for decades and—”

“You couldn’t find me because I didn’t want you to.”

Castiel’s expression screws up in confusion. “You didn’t think I could protect you from my brothers?”

“I needed to protect myself from you.”

Castiel is immediately affronted, “I never once harmed you.”

“You locked me up,” despair paints your voice, “and you took my life away from me.”

“I wanted to keep you safe! My brethren were after you.”

“And after?” Your question hangs in the air for a moment. “I know the affairs in Heaven ended before I left, Castiel. You had every opportunity to let me go back to my life, but instead you made me a prisoner in my own home!”

“I did what was best for you, for your safety,” Castiel isn’t yelling or shouting, but his tone is vehement.

“And did you ever think to ask what I thought was best for me?”

“You said you trusted me. I shouldn’t have had to ask!” Castiel roars. His chest is heaving, jaw clenching in frustration. He takes a few deep breaths and steps back, wiping a hand over his face like he’s trying to rid himself of his anger.

His words stick with you, longer than you’re comfortable with. Maybe it was said in the moment, back when you were recklessly, hopelessly falling for her. You had trusted her. But that was then. This is now.

“I did. And you betrayed that trust.”

“Everything I did was for you.”

“No, Castiel,” you sigh. “Everything you did was for you.”

“Is that what you think? Is that why you ran away from me?”

“You made me immortal so you wouldn’t have to live without me. What was I supposed to think,” your voice is even, the words flying out of your mouth smoothly despite the strain in your throat. Under your composure, fire burns in your lungs, races across your skin until the red, raging heat is all you can see.

Finally confronting Castiel, unloading the weight she dumped on you almost a century ago, is cathartic. Cleansing.

Castiel doesn’t answer, so you take that as your cue to hike back up to the Impala. You don’t turn around or hear the sound of wings behind you — then again, you aren’t really listening for them.

It takes almost half an hour for you to find Sam and Dean locked up in a closet, unconscious from blows to the head. You wake them, check for concussions, and on the way back to the motel update them on the shifter (“No, it wasn’t a ghost.” “Yes, it confessed to killing the vics.” “No, it didn’t say why.”).

You leave out the part where Castiel smites the bastard. You leave out Castiel altogether.

But he doesn’t leave your mind once.


	4. Chapter 4

_October 2008_

Uriel huffs at the hex bag that Castiel tosses on the hotel bed. Castiel ignores him, but Uriel opens his mouth anyway.

“Remind me, Castiel, why are we giving these mud monkeys the opportunity to hand over yet another Seal to demon scum?”

“I know I do not need to remind you of our orders, Uriel.” Castiel’s rebuke is firm. The air shifts, and he stretches his wings to fill the room.

Uriel readjusts his, folding them back in from the space he’d tried to claim. “I only wonder what good taking orders from the Winchester would do.”

“It’s not up for debate, brother.”

Uriel is silent, but Castiel can feel his frustration as loudly as if he’d been shouting. Castiel doesn’t mind, if only because it means he can keep his more blasphemous thoughts about the Winchesters to himself.

He’s right in some regard, Castiel thinks. The Winchesters are humans, and compared to the life experiences of angels, they’re hardly a fraction of the age of a new-grown cell. It’s laughable to think that Dean Winchester would have some insight or knowledge that the angels themselves don’t possess among their ranks.

When Sam and Dean show up to the hotel room minutes later, they aren’t as cooperative as Castiel would like. He needs to delegate this Seal, the Raising of Samhain, to Dean’s command, but the human is being infuriatingly dense.

Castiel had almost forgotten how ambitious humans are, how blindly they promise what they cannot control. The Winchesters are determined to save this speck of a town, even if it means breaking one of the 66 Seals. Sam is bumbling, insisting they’ll find the witch when he has no power to do so, and Dean is looking at Castiel like the apocalypse is the angel’s fault.

If only he knew.

Castiel snaps out of his train of thought when Sam says your name.

“...she knows some witchcraft, right? Maybe she can help locate the witch.”

“Is that wise?” Castiel grits his teeth almost immediately, chiding himself for speaking. Of course, above all else he wants to protect you. But getting your input on this mission could mean that he would get to speak with you, and perhaps get another chance to apologize.

Dean throws Castiel a glare. “Do you want us to find this witch or not?”

“Preventing the Seal from breaking is paramount, Dean.” Castiel counters. “I only question if this is the quickest route.” Not his best excuse, but it will have to do.

“If we quit standing around yapping, it will be.”

“Watch yourself, boy.” Uriel growls out a warning that Dean brushes off.

Sam digs into his pocket and holds up some small black rectangle to his ear. “This is stupid, we’re wasting time,” he mutters, poking at it repeatedly. Then, after a few ringing sounds, “Hey, Smalls. Got a question for ya.”

Castiel hears your voice, scratchy and distant, echo across the room. “What’s up, Sammy?”

He can’t stop himself from taking that first step toward your voice. Toward you.

Dean gives Castiel a look at the same time Uriel’s words resonate in his mind, “This is not the time, Castiel.” He doesn’t know which of the two he wants to glare at first, so instead he keeps his eyes trained on Sam and the source of your voice, a small black rectangle in his hand (phones have gotten much smaller since the last time Castiel was on earth).

“A witch tracking spell? Yeah, let me see what I can dig up.”

“Got anything more powerful than whatever angels use?”

There’s a tense pause. “You’re with them now?” you ask slow and measured. Tentative.

More cautious than anything, Castiel realizes.

“Yeah, apparently this hunt is one of the Seals — the Raising of Samhain. Castiel and another angel, Uriel, are here. Said the witch is cloaked so even they can’t find her.”

“Do you have something of the witch’s?”

“Hey, Dean, do we still have those Celtic coins from the witch’s hex bag?”

“Gonna need something else, Sam. The spell is picky and if those coins were wrapped up in a bag and left somewhere, they belong to the recipient of that shitty-ass present. They’re basically a road right back to the vics.”

You sound so composed, unaffected by the hint of alarm that’s laced in Sam’s tone. Castiel listens in while you guide Sam through the spell, answering his questions with ease.

“Wait, Dean,” Sam cuts you off, his eyes widening in realization. “The hex bag, it didn’t show up in our room after we talked to Tracy—”

“—the teacher,” Dean finished, already moving to the door. “I’ll make a run back to his classroom, see if I can find anything of his to use for the spell.”

Castiel had seen the three of you in action at the bar where the demons attacked Sam, but that was only a glimpse at how seamlessly you collaborate together. How the Winchesters take your orders in stride, how Sam barely finishes half his questions before you rattle off the answer like you could do it in your sleep. He shouldn’t be surprised at your intelligence and resourcefulness, but it’s so impressive.

Even hearing your voice through the strange sound waves of the phone fills Castiel with something alongside the pride. It’s warm and comforting, nostalgic. He had gone so long replaying the memory of it in his mind that, even distorted, you sound better than a dream.

Dean returns soon after and helps Sam bring in ingredients from the Impala’s stash.

“Look how the mud monkeys dance,” Uriel mutters soft enough for Castiel to hear. He bristles at the comment, and glares at Uriel from the corner of his eye.

“Come, Castiel,” Uriel tries again. “We have no time to sit around here, waiting for them to lose a Seal, when we should be helping our brothers.”

“Go,” Castiel snaps. “Abandon your post, if that’s what you wish. But you know our orders. If disobedience is the path you choose, then so be it.”

Uriel scowls and disappears in a gust of wind that draws the attention of both Sam and Dean.

“He’s a real treat, huh?” Dean snorts.

“Shut up, Dean,” Sam mutters, hand over the mouthpiece of the phone while you finish the instructions.

“...and while you’re doing that, you’ll say, ‘ _Mihi pareas ubicumque in occultatione sis, defino te ut mihi pareas. Igni fiat notum_.’ Got that, Sammy?”

“You got it, Smalls. Hang tight for a sec.” He lays the phone down on the table, pours the bowl of ingredients over the map of the town on the table, and recites the incantation perfectly.

Nothing happens.

“What the—”

Castiel is already irritated with Uriel and annoyed enough that he has to deal with the Winchesters at all, let alone without you around, that he doesn’t give Sam even two seconds to figure out what he did wrong. He’s across the room in an instant, reaching for Sam’s phone.

“I believe Sam missed the step before the incantation,” Castiel says into the phone, just how he saw Sam using it earlier. “The Latin suggests use of fire, correct?”

“...Yeah,” you breathe out. “Yeah, the map needs to be lit on fire.”

The map is set ablaze on the table, and both Sam and Dean jump back in shock at the flames. Castiel repeats the Latin, extinguishing the fire that leaves one small circle of the map unscorched among the ashes.

“It worked perfectly,” Castiel says into the phone. “We’ve located the witch,” he hesitates, then adds, “thanks to you.”

“Right. You’re welcome.”

You’re wary, and some discomfort from your last encounter with him is still present in your voice. “Are you well?” he asks quietly.

“Yeah, I’m fine, Castiel.”

“Good.” Dean clears his throat, and Castiel turns to see the Winchesters looking at him strangely, a mixture of confusion and annoyance. “I believe Sam and Dean would like to speak with you now.”

You don’t respond, so he hands the phone back to Sam who puts it on speaker and holds it between himself and Dean.

“Hey, thanks for helping us out, kid,” Dean says. The Winchesters give you the most diminishing nicknames, Castiel thinks scathingly.

“Anytime, guys. Now go gank that witch.”

The line goes silent, and the brothers move quickly, snatching up the map from the table and tugging on their jackets. But when Dean turns to ask Castiel if he’d join them, he’s gone.

-

“Uriel.”

The other angel drags his gaze away from the sky peeking through the leaves above and glares at Castiel pointedly.

“The Winchesters have found the witch. The Seal should be safe.”

“Should be,” Uriel says, disgruntled. “We would know for sure, if you’d just let me blow that pinprick of a town off the map.” He narrows his eyes. “And if you weren’t so preoccupied by that human.”

“‘That human?’”

“The female primate those apes called. She’s the one you used to know, isn’t she? From your last stay on Earth.”

Castiel refrains from rolling his eyes. “And if she is?”

“She’s a distraction, Castiel.”

“That is none of your concern. If I recall, Uriel, you are the one who is at risk of disobedience. Not me.”

“She’s associating herself with the abomination. That’s reason enough to disobey,” Uriel snarls.

“Sam Winchester will be dealt with when Heaven commands it.”

Uriel’s anger rolls over in waves, but Castiel maintains eye contact as his brother storms past Castiel, knocking his shoulder. “I’m warning you, Castiel, you are being drawn in by her again. If you sabotage this mission for her sake, Heaven will have retribution one thousand times over for your crime.”

“You would do well to remember that Heaven’s punishment is swift and just, for your own wellbeing,” Castiel says coldly.

The soft rustle of angel’s wings echoes through the trees in response, leaving Castiel alone with his thoughts.

_May 1909_

The fountain pen scratches softly on the paper while you fill up the latest page of your journal with neatly-written words. Castiel runs her hand up and down your arm, tugging you closer to her side. You fold your legs underneath you and lean into her embrace.

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing.” You smile, making no effort to hide the pages from Castiel’s eyes. She shifts behind you and her cheek rests against the side of your head. You’re quiet, waiting for her to read your latest entry.

“You’re writing about us?” she asks, soft and amazed. She reaches across both of you to thumb at the corner of the page.

“I want to remember,” you say, burrowing into the crook of her neck. Castiel tucks you beneath her chin, tender and secure. “This last month, you being here with me… it’s been wonderful. I didn’t want to forget a moment of it.”

Castiel says nothing, but quickly plucks the journal and pen from your hands, slips a hand under your knee, and hoists you onto her lap, your knees planted on either side of her hips. She runs her hands up your thighs, your waist, and grips tight.

“Remind me how an angel like me became so lucky to find a beautiful soul like yours.”

“You followed me home from the library. Hardly luck, if you ask me.”

Castiel tickles your waist in response, and you shriek in laughter, writhing in her lap. Once she finishes torturing you, she draws you in for a giggling kiss, one where your teeth bump against hers because you can’t stop smiling. You never want to stop smiling with Castiel.

“I love you.” The words slip out of your mouth easily, effortlessly. This feeling, this pure bliss that’s been filling you to the brim every day for the past month is love. You know it is.

Castiel doesn’t miss a beat, and her smile is bright when she says, “Say it again, En El I.”

You rest a hand on either side of her face, match her smile, and watch her big, beautiful blue eyes this time. “I love you, Castiel.”

“And I love you. More than anything in this world, I swear it.” Her eyes trail over you perched on her lap, beaming at her declaration. “Again.”

“I love you,” you chant. “Castiel, I love you. I love you.” Your lips are pressed against hers when you repeat it, all smiles and nuzzling noses.

She pulls away abruptly though, her head jerking to face the entryway.

“Anna.”

You turn as well, and see a young man standing there, smooth-faced with rich, dark red hair that curls under his cap. His green eyes flicker between you and Castiel, resting only for a second where her hands lie on your waist.

“Castiel.”

She’s stiff underneath you, uncomfortable; you move off her lap so she can stand to greet Anna. He must be an angel, you’re sure of it.

“I was wondering what would keep you from reporting back for so long.”

“We’ve existed for a millennia, Anna. I’d hardly call a month, ‘so long.’”

Anna smiles. “Have peace, Castiel. I was only concerned for your well-being.”

Castiel’s tension subsides, and she offers up a small smile to Anna. For a moment, there’s a fondness in the air that passes between the two.

Then Anna speaks again. “There’s been talk among our brothers and sisters. Malachi and their faction are now searching Earth.”

“For what?”

“The same thing you are, I’d imagine.”

You don’t like the way Castiel’s brows furrow. “Anna, I’ve searched everywhere. I’m beginning to fear they are warded.”

“You’ve been searching this whole time?”

Anna didn’t need to say anything else to convey his meaning — even you understood that he thought you were distracting Castiel from her mission.

“Yes.” Castiel stood her ground without a moment of hesitation. “Humans have catalogued centuries of discoveries since anno Domini. Without their work, my search would be taking even longer.”

Now Anna turns his eyes on you. “Is that so? You humans have been collecting God’s Word and His artifacts?”

Castiel opens her mouth, but you stand and speak first. “Yes. Well, not me personally. But there are professionals who study archeology and theology, and they report their findings for others, like me, to study.”

“Whatever for?” Anna seems genuinely confused, her brows furrowed and head tilted to the side.

“What do you mean?”

“Spending what little time you have on this earth devoted to studying the unknown. Why toil your life away searching for answers that you may never find?”

Is he testing you? You clear your throat nervously, feeling the same sort of anxiety that the disdainful men at university gave you in their line of questioning. “Studying the unknown can be enjoyable. It’s work, but it’s satisfying and exciting when you find something new.”

You glance at Castiel and she nods reassuringly, clasping your hand in hers.

Anna hums in response. “Fascinating.”

Castiel speaks up, “Anna, shall we go over the rest of my report?”

He considers you for a moment longer, then turns to Castiel and nods.

“Would you give us a moment, En El I?” she asks.

“Of course.” You press your lips against the back of her hand and head to the kitchen. You can hear snippets of their conversation as you prepare food.

“Ezekiel plans on appealing to Michael to see if Malachi’s actions have warranted punishment.”

“They are of no interest to him,” Castiel retorts.

“I know it, but even with the tablets, I fear Michael is the only one who can put an end to all this.”

Castiel’s voice drops, and you quiet your actions to hear her. “...can’t know where I am, Anna. Please swear it.”

“Castiel,” Anna’s voice is concerned. “She’s a human. You know our laws. You could fall for this.”

“The laws regarding angels and human relations were created to restrict the birth of nephilim,” Castiel retorts. “In this case, it is not a possibility, nor is it of interest to me,” Castiel says.

Anna is silent, and you try to make some noise in the kitchen so Castiel doesn’t suspect you of eavesdropping.

She continues, “I know emotions are for humans, but this is unlike any experience I’ve had in Heaven. The love we share is real.”

Your heart swells hearing the sincerity in Castiel’s voice.

“I heard the name you gave her,” Anna says softly after considering his sister’s words. “En El I: ‘my first.’ A beautiful and fitting name. You have my word. The location and human will remain unknown to our brothers.”

November 2008  
Dean called you the next day with an update: They found the witches, but not before Samhain rose and broke the Seal. On the bright side, he said the angels didn’t blow up the town because they were commanded to follow Dean’s orders. Or so he heard from Castiel.

The Winchesters decided to pick up some cases on the way back to Bobby’s; no point in hurrying back when they were already far from home. For a few weeks, you and Bobby dig through your apocalyptic research until you can’t find any new information about the Seals or angels.

“I have so much more back at my place,” you casually mention to Bobby one day. Decades of research more, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Bobby knocks back the rest of his beer, then says, “Well we’re scraping the barrel for information here, kid. Think we could make a trip back to your place?”

“It’s an eight hour drive, Bobby. You have a whole network relying on you to be here.”

He opens his mouth to object, but you cut in again while you gather your wallet and keys. “Listen, I can make the trip myself. I’ll grab more books, get a good night’s sleep, and make it back before dinner tomorrow. It’s a milk run.”

“Grab me a bottle of whiskey on your way back and it’s a liquor run.”

You try to send him a meaningful glance, which he expertly avoids. “How about I restock your beer instead. In the meantime, you could try coffee or maybe even water, which is actually good for your liver.”

“If you wanna sass me like that, you can stay in ‘Misery.’”

“Love you too, old man,” you holler down the hallway, absently checking your pockets for hex bags on your way out to your truck.

The engine roars to life and rumbles down the long driveway. You fiddle with the radio, glancing away from the road to check the station number. When you look back, you have to slam your brakes to keep from hitting the man standing in the middle of the road at the end of Bobby’s property.

“What the—”

The truck jolts to a stop, and you stare out the windshield, eyes wide as they meet Castiel’s. He squints, clearly confused, but doesn’t move.

You huff and jump out of the truck, slamming the door behind you before storming over to the angel. “How did you find me? This whole place is warded, and I’ve got hex bags up to my shoulders.”

Castiel shakes his head, taking in this new revelation. “You’ve been here, this whole time.”

“Answer my questions, Castiel!”

“I know where Bobby Singer lives; I visited Sam and Dean once before. But your wards; that’s what kept me out here.” He gestures to the empty highway and fields just feet behind him. “I’ve been waiting for one of them to appear. I can’t find them, and I need their assistance.”

“That would be the hex bags. I got onto them for not carrying some around after that Samhain Seal,” you retort. “But the bags don’t work if you already know about the physical location, huh?”

“It would seem so.”

“Don’t act like you’re just figuring this out,” you sneer, rage boiling up inside at the thought of Castiel casing Bobby’s, biding his time until you appear..

His face falls. “I’ve been checking back here for Sam and Dean all week. If I’d known you were here, I would have—” he stops.

You wait for him to finish his sentence, and when he doesn’t, you explode. “You would have what, Castiel? Found a way to break through the warding? Jacked a phone to lure me out?” You rip the hex bag off the string that’s around your neck and throw it to the ground. “You know what? Fine. I’m not scared anymore. You may know where to find me now, but I’ve changed, Castiel. Even finding me after all these years doesn’t mean you have me. You never will.”

When Castiel speaks your name, he sounds broken and wounded, “I am sorry you were scared. I never intended for you to feel that way.”

“Well I did. Nothing can change that.”

Before the silence can drag on too long, you snap, “Why were you looking for Sam and Dean?”

“There was a Seal. My brothers and sisters took care of it, but,” he pauses, “we lost Inias and Hester.”

The names are familiar, and you remember them as two angels close to Castiel in his garrison. Your heart twinges; angels dying in battle isn’t a rarity, but it’s been so long since they’ve had to fight. It’s not hard to imagine how he is feeling right now; you simmer down quickly and say, “I’m sorry, Castiel.”

“They fought bravely. We could not have saved the Seal without them.” He’s putting on a strong face, but looking more closely, you can tell he’s been in mourning. His hair is ruffled more than normal, clothes are askew, and his vessel has bags under his eyes that betray his exhaustion.

You nod and chew on your lip, thinking. “Listen, I’ll text Sam. Tell him they can toss the hex bags so you can get a hold of them when you need help.”

Relief floods his features. “Thank you.”

He’s quiet while you pull out your phone and type the message to Sam. When the text sends with a beep, you shove the phone in your back pocket.

“Well, I better get going. Research to do, Seals to save, you know.” You shift your weight awkwardly, the space between you filled with restless energy from your prior outburst.

As if he’s just realized you’re trying to drive away from Bobby’s, Castiel asks, “Why are you leaving? Isn’t your research here?”

“I didn’t bring it all with me. Most of it’s back at home. I didn’t know that I’d need to pack almost a century’s worth of my studies to help stop the apocalypse.” Your joke falls flat upon delivery, and Castiel’s eyes soften at your bitterness. “Anyway, I’ve got a long drive.”

“If you’d like, I can fly you—”

“No.” The word comes out harsher than you intended. You clear your throat and try again, throwing your thumb over your shoulder to point out your truck. “No, I’m fine. I can drive.”

Castiel nods. “I’ll accompany you.”

“Thanks, but I don’t need a chaperone.” You turn away to climb back into your truck, the slam of the door muffling any words of protest.

For a moment, in the quiet stillness of the truck cab, you breathe. You quickly glance through the windshield to see Castiel standing where you left him, his face resigned.

It’s unnerving, how seamlessly he’s wormed his way back into your life. For so long, you warded yourself from all angels, just to keep yourself concealed from him. Nothing has really changed, though. Working alongside him to stop the apocalypse doesn’t mean anything more than just that. You can always go back into hiding when this is over.

That’s what you keep telling yourself, anyway.

A soft beep pulls you out of your musing; Sam got your text and the hex bags are gone. You roll down the driver side window while your truck inches around Castiel. “You should be able to get a hold of Dean and Sam now.”

He nods, makes to say something, then withdraws. You offer a tight-lipped smile as you ease your truck past him, onto the highway back home.


	5. Chapter 5

_October 1909_

“Reverend Schultz, if you’d just give me the opportunity to present my research—”

The department head holds out a hand, effectively cutting you off. “Miss, I’m sorry but I can’t allow it. The symposium is restricted to preachers and those in training. You’re privileged to even be an attendee.”

You grit your teeth. “With all due respect, Reverend, you know my research is sound. Woman or not, I should be allowed to present alongside every other classmate of mine.”

Reverend Schultz shakes his head mournfully. “I’m sorry. It’s out of my hands.”

A heavy, sick feeling settles over you, and you storm out of the reverend’s office, the door slamming behind you and echoing through the hall. The walk back to your home is quick, frustration lacing each step you take right up to your front door.

You pause at the door and breathe deeply. When you walk in, Castiel is there, her soft smile and eyes welcoming you more than your home itself ever could.

“Cas,” your voice cracks as the weight of the day falls from your shoulders. You all but collapse into her arms, face-first into the soft tresses that flow over her shoulders. Her arms wrap you up, and her lips press against your head softly before she gently shushes you.

“The meeting did not go well?” she murmurs after a moment.

You laugh humorlessly. “Far from it. The reverend is as pretentious as the rest of them. Said I was ‘privileged to be an attendee,’ which essentially means my request to present my thesis alongside all the others is absurd.”

She snorts, tightening her grip on you, but you shake your head and pull away to see her face. “Never mind me, how are your brothers and sisters? Any luck with Samandriel?”

Castiel stiffens a bit, but guides you to your room while she speaks. “Samandriel wishes for peace, and is hesitant to take sides. He would like for us to find a compromise with Malachi, despite how blasphemous they have been of late.”

She cups your cheek, placing a kiss on your forehead, nose, and lips. “Don’t worry yourself about those matters.” She presses her lips against yours again. And again.

“Cas,” your half-hearted protest comes out as a breathe. She nips at your lips, working her way to your ear.

“Say my name, O Zod I En,” she murmurs against your skin.

“Castiel.”

She hums in approval, hands drifting around your waist to loosen your dress. She’s moving painstakingly slow, and you want more and you want it now, but you remain still.

“I’d like to help you,” she says, the dress finally loose enough for her to slide it to the floor, leaving you only in your slip, “with the reverend. I can have him agree to let you present at the symposium.”

“What?” You let her press her lips to yours before pulling away. “Castiel, what do you mean?”

Castiel continues to lay light kisses along your cheek. “You deserve to be treated with respect.”

“I agree wholeheartedly,” you say, moving out of her reach again. Castiel’s eyes narrow. “But what are you planning to do to make him say yes?”

Castiel doesn’t answer.

“Were you going to compel him, Casti—”

“Of course not,” she interrupts, blue eyes flashing in frustration. “I don’t understand why you’re not happy about this. I’m only trying to take care of you.”

You bite back your retort and instead reach for her hand. She allows you to lead the way to the bed. You trace her fingers while you sort out your thoughts, giving the tension in the room some time to ease.

“I want to present at the symposium,” you start, “but I want to do it of my own accord. I want them to see my work and listen to me, because they know my words are worth listening to. If you appear or speak to the reverend as an angel, all my research and hard work become overshadowed by this ‘miracle.’”

Castiel purses her lips thoughtfully.

“The symposium would turn into a pissing match between men — who already have over-inflated senses of their own self-worth, mind you — boasting about their encounters with angels and God and burning bushes. And my research will fall by the wayside.”

You chance a look up at your angel’s face. She covers your fidgeting hands with hers and swoops in to plant two kisses on your cheeks.

“That outcome is not my intent. I only want for you to be happy.”

You smile. “Castiel, you make me happy. I only want you.”

Castiel’s face breaks out into a grin. She pulls you across her lap and nuzzles into your neck while her hands trace your curves. “Promise me?”

You hum in response and she tweaks your nipple through your slip.

“Ahh! Promise, Cas.”

She turns up the hem of your underskirt and flicks her thumb across your clit, pulling a whine from your lips.

“Say it, En El I.”

“Cas, I promise,” you whimper breathlessly. “I promise I’ll only ever want you.”

Satisfied with your answer, Castiel pulls your lips to hers, sealing your promise with a kiss.

_November 2008_

The diner’s fluorescent lights are dull and eerie in the fog. Castiel stares at the three silhouettes in the window. You lean across the booth to steal some food from Sam’s plate. Castiel’s teeth grind, jealousy seeping through his vessel’s skin.

“See something you like, angel?”

The blade slips out of Castiel’s trench coat sleeve and is at the demon’s throat in a second. “Who are you?”

“An ally. The enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that,” the demon replies smoothly, unperturbed by the threat.

Castiel presses the blade until orange, crackling light flickers between the split skin. His patience is too thin to deal with this worm.

“Try again.”

“Name’s Crowley,” the demon’s voice is calmer than is wise. “And I take it you’re Castiel.”

Castiel’s grip on the angel blade tightens. “What do you want?”

Crowley’s eyes flash red. “What every crossroad demon wants, feathers. To make a deal.”

The bell on diner door jingles, and Castiel whips his head toward the chatter spilling out into the night. A young couple leave the diner hand-in-hand, one’s skirt and the other’s long hair billowing in the breeze. His eyes dart back to you, still laughing in the diner alongside Sam and Dean, when the girls lean in to kiss.

“I’m not interested in making deals with demons.”

“Not even one that could stop Lilith?”

When Castiel doesn’t tear his gaze away from you, Crowley continues. “She’s a valuable asset, especially during these troubling times. Wouldn’t you say?”

He turns to Crowley, ready to kill. “What do you know about her?”

“I have eyes. Particularly on the Winchesters after the stunt they pulled opening the Devil’s Gate.” Crowley leans away from the blade at his throat, but Castiel moves with him. “Then this gem pops up out of nowhere without any record of her existence and, well, how could I not dig around?”

“What makes you think she’s so special?” The words sting a little coming out of Castiel’s mouth, but he covers it with a hard glare at Crowley.

“I know an old soul when I see one, angel.” The demon’s eyes are no longer red, but they’re still narrowed mischievously. “And that woman doesn’t look her soul’s age one bit.”

Castiel wouldn’t know. Your soul hasn’t dimmed since the day he met you.

“And wouldn’t you know that one theological researcher disappeared around 1912.” Crowley slowly reaches for his pocket and holds out a frayed sepia-toned photograph. “And she’s the spitting image of that one in the diner there.”

Castiel tentatively lowers his blade before shifting his focus to the paper. It’s a landscape of a park: two children are playing with a dog, an older gentleman in a top hat is walking in the foreground, and in the back—

He snatches the photograph out of Crowley’s hand. His eyes zero in on the two women sitting on the edge of a fountain. It’s strange to see his former vessel after so long; but his eyes don’t linger, and he redirects his attention to the other woman. Of course the image doesn’t do you justice. Human innovation (ingenious as it often is) cannot contain the magnitude, the beauty of a soul.

“And this theologian, who just so happens to be less than 100 feet away from us, wrote a thesis on the existence of Purgatory two years prior to her disappearance,” Crowley drawls.

Castiel snaps protectively, “You’re reaching if you think she knows more than the rumors every angel and demon have heard.” It’s not entirely untrue, but in the near-hundred years since he last saw you, he’s certain you’ve only acquired more information on the subject.

Crowley’s eyes flicker to the photo in Castiel’s hand, the edge wrinkling where he’s gripping it too tight. “Right then. I’ll just have a word with her to be sure.”

“The Winchesters won’t allow it. As soon as they discover what you are, they’ll deem you untrustworthy.” Crowley raises a brow at that, and Castiel means to wipe the smug grin off his face. “But that’s beside the point. They’re under the charge of my garrison.”

Crowley’s lips twist into a scowl. He considers Castiel before examining his palms with a sigh and swiftly brushing them together, as if to rid them of his encounter with the angel. “Fine, then. I’ll be off.” He pulls a card from his pocket and holds it out until Castiel accepts it. “Give me a ring if you change your mind.”

_Crowley_   
_King of the Crossroads_   
_666_

Castiel scoffs at the card, but Crowley is already gone.

_November 1909_

You were dreaming. Had to be. No sunset was ever that colorful in the real world — the sky is painted with oranges and pinks and purples and blues and even some deep red on the horizon.

A gentle voice behind you calls your name, and you pull your eyes away from the flora gently flowing in the wind. The man is gangly and tall, wearing a tweed suit. His face is sharp, angular. Even his smile is more of a straight line than anything else. “Who are you?”

The man grins, boxy and all teeth with no warmth. “I’m a friend of Castiel’s.”

You relax immediately, unaware that you were even tense to begin with. The man strolls up next to you, hands in his pockets. You’re standing side-by-side on a hill overlooking the lush green fields that had you so captivated before. The sight is glorious, and you forget for a moment the stranger standing with you.

“Are you an angel, too? What’s your name?” you ask after a few beats pass.

He nods, his mouth slanting up into a smirk. “We should play a game. I think Castiel would want her friends to know more about you, don’t you think?”

Your brows furrow, trying to think about Castiel and what she would want and which friends she spoke about. This dream world is muddling your mind, but your eyes are keen, drinking in details like that violet butterfly resting on the crisp, white petals of a flower near your feet. Nature is stunning in this place.

Seeing your hesitation, the other angel adds, “It’s a question game. You can ask me questions too if you would like.”

You nod tentatively. The angel seems pleased.

“We’ll start easy,” he says. “What do you and Castiel do when she visits?”

“We walk in the park and talk about my research. Sometimes she tells me about Heaven, but not often. And we—” you blush, but the words tumble out before you can stop them, “We have sexual intercourse quite often.”

The angel hums, his eyes searching you before he speaks again. “What has Castiel told you—”

“I thought we were trading questions,” you interrupt. He looks annoyed with you, but he nods curtly anyway. “What’s your name?”

“Esper,” he replies curtly. “What has Castiel told you regarding matters of Heaven?”

“That there are factions in disagreement with each other over God’s will,” you babble. “Castiel sides with the Purists, who want to keep humanity safe until His return. Then there are the Extremists who want to go against God’s Word to bring Him back by starting the apocalypse, and the Pacifists who refuse to get involved. There’s another faction too, Michael’s faction. All I know about him is that he can stop the Extremists, but is choosing not to.”

“And what is it about your research that has Castiel so intrigued?”

“I study angels and Heaven, but my thesis is primarily centered around the apocalypse and Purgatory, and how the two are connected, but Castiel won’t…” Why are you telling Esper this? Would Castiel even want you here, speaking to this stranger? “I thought you were asking questions about me?”

Esper nods, “I am. How much does Castiel care for you in relation to any other human?”

“She loves me,” you answer, unthinkingly. “Castiel, she said so. That she loves me.”

“You in particular? Or as a part of our Father’s creation?”

“ _Me_ ,” Words start bubbling, boiling, bursting out of you and you can’t hold them down. “She said I— that I was—” Stop talking, stop sharing, stop, stop, STOP! “— that I’m His most precious creation. What are you doing to me?! Why can’t I lie to you? Why can’t I stop?”

You turn to run from Esper, but your feet sink into the grass, no longer green and bright, but dark and dead and brown instead. The sunset you admired is gone, replaced by a blood red sky, the valley below overrun with dark, creeping vines slithering up the hill toward you.

“Don’t be afraid.” Esper is too calm, too composed, too unbothered by the vines curling around your ankles and cutting off your circulation. “Answering my questions will help you. Has Castiel made plans to lead a charge?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know!” you sob, bile rising in your throat at the stink that the vines bring with them. They smell foul, like death.

Esper tuts at you and reaches out to your forehead with two fingers. You thrash and scream, trying to knock his hands away while the hard, thin line of his mouth deepens into a scowl.

You bolt awake, a sheen of sweat coating your skin and your breath heaving like you were just suffocating. Something wet drips from your face — you’re crying.

“C-Cas?” you pray aloud. Your voice is broken, cracked and wracked with sobs. The air around you swishes and you’re wrapped up in her arms, her thumb wiping your tears away as she comforts you.

“En El I, what is it? Tell me,” she insists softly.

Choking back your tears, you respond, “A nightmare, oh it was awful, Castiel. I was trapped and sinking and there was this angel and he — it was like he was interrogating me.”

Castiel stiffens and gently pulls you away enough to see your face. “What angel? Did he tell you his name?”

“It was— he told me it was Esper.” Memories of the dream were already slipping through your fingers as quickly as you tried to recall them.

“You’re certain?” Castiel examines you, like she’s trying to see your dream before it’s gone. You nod, and she pulls you back into her embrace.

“He said you were friends and that he wanted to know me better— and he asked me so many questions about you, Cas, and I tried not to answer them, but I did. I couldn’t stop,” you duck your head, immediately ashamed that you so freely gave information about Castiel away, even if it was just a dream.

“You couldn’t help it,” Castiel says, more to herself than to you. “Not your fault.”

When you finally settle down enough to sit up and meet Castiel’s eyes, they are hard and cold and staring at your ceiling.

“Cas?” you try gently. She doesn’t move.

“I have put you in danger,” she whispers, her eyes falling closed for a moment before flashing to you. “But this will not happen again. I am adding new wards to this entire building, every room. Tomorrow you will start learning sigils, and you will practice them every day until you have mastered them.”

Your eyes drop, and you whisper out a faint apology.

“What did you say?” Castiel sounds shocked.

Treading carefully, you meet her eyes, trying to look as apologetic as you feel inside. “I’m sorry I told you about my nightmare. It was just a silly dream. I didn’t mean to worry you about it.”

“Just because it was a dream doesn’t mean it wasn’t real,” Castiel says.

You want to tell Castiel that of course it wasn’t real, Esper must be a name you remember from your studies (so many angel names rattle around in your head because of your vocation), there were no vines threatening to wrap around you and squeeze you to death, it had to be a dream—

Castiel seems hesitant to speak. Finally she sighs. “Angels can walk in dreams. It’s one of the many ways we appear to humans when a message must be delivered. It was a dream, but Esper was there.”

The room is cold. Cold and small and much too tight. You can’t breathe. Castiel feels you curling into yourself and she grabs hold of your hands, runs her fingers between yours and over your palms wrapping them around your wrists, rubbing her thumbs soothingly against your skin. Her grace runs through you, gentle and slow, but it feels like a roaring flood of warmth and safety and love.

Castiel is fixed on you, holding eye contact. Not that you would break it. “I will protect you, O Zod I En. You will learn sigils and I will ward the entire Earth against my brethren if that’s what it takes. But I will keep you safe.”

Your heart thrums. Her conviction is comforting, and you want her see how much you trust her. You pray and you pray your thanks and love and trust until Castiel is almost shaking from your faith. She groans your name, and you slip out of her hold long enough to sink to the floor between her legs. Her skirts are a nuisance, a beautiful but unnecessary nuisance, and when she sees you struggling to get through them, they’re gone, leaving her only in her slip.

You reach under her slip to drag down her undergarments and kiss her calves, her knees, and up her thighs. Castiel sighs, breathing out your name like a prayer of her own. You grab a handful of her thighs, one in each hand, and open her up wider so you can kiss the skin leading you to her cunt.

“I love you, Castiel,” you murmur against her skin and she moans. Verbal prayers are strong, stronger still when spoken in the presence of the angel you’re praying to. There is no precedent for prayers between a human and angel who share a connection like you and Castiel. None that’s been recorded. At least, not until you and Castiel.

Castiel, your angel. Whose legs are spread open for you, whose chest is rising and falling rapidly while she breathes for you. Her labia is glistening, and seeing her wetness warms you, lights a fire in your belly. You don’t wait to give her what she wants.

You press your mouth against her folds like a kiss, and you pull some of her between your lips to suck. Castiel’s legs twitch, and her hips stutter forward so your chin presses against her cunt. She groans and she twists her fingers into your hair, holding you close while she grinds against your face. You move to let her fuck herself on your tongue while the bridge of your nose nudges her clit.

She’s keening, pulling your hair tight so you moan against her and push into her a little farther. You let your thumb drift over her clit and gently circle it, dip down to your tongue at her entrance to steal some of her wetness, and back up to her clit. Your lungs are burning from the short spurts of breath you’re taking, but you know Castiel is close. She always is when you’re on your knees in front of her.

You get a steady rhythm thrumming over her clit and slowly move your mouth away until you can speak, lips still brushing her with every word.

“Castiel,” you pray. “Please come for me, Castiel. Want to taste you, make you feel so good.”

You keep praying aloud, eyes on your angel’s, your thumb losing rhythm as Castiel reaches her climax. Her legs shake on either side of you and her grip on your hair tightens, her eyes flashing bright white-blue, as she cries out in broken Enochian, “O Zod I En!”

You stay put while Castiel rides out her release, soaking your chin with her come that leaks past your lips. She slows, finally freeing your hair from her grasp and running her hand down your cheek. You pull away from her when she nudges you, giving her lips one last taste with a swipe of your tongue.

Castiel smiles, and runs a thumb over your chin to catch some of her wetness threatening to drip off. Your mouth is already open and ready when she moves it to your lips for you to suck.

“You are so greedy,” she teases. Your eyes smile while your mouth is wrapped around her thumb. You pull away gently and lay a kiss on the pad of her finger, then settle your cheek against her palm.

“Only for you,” you say. It’s true. You can never get enough of Castiel. “I wanted to thank you.”

“Shouldn’t I be thanking you?” Castiel asks, her tone light. “Isn’t that customary after—”

“I mean,” you interrupt, “for protecting me. I wanted to show you my gratitude.”

Castiel considers you, the corner of her lips curled up in a small grin.

“What are you thinking?” you ask. You haven’t moved from your spot on the floor between Castiel’s legs, but you’re comfortable, like a part of you belongs there, so intimately close to her.

“I was thinking how incredible it is that a tiny human like you can fill all of me with so much warmth.” Castiel pauses. “Not just my vessel. My entire being.”

It takes you a second to understand. Her entire being. Her true form. Castiel told you once that her true form was taller than the Eiffel Tower; you have never been, but you know it’s the tallest man-made structure on earth.

Castiel could make you feel so small sometimes. But this. This makes you feel big. Important. Special.

You beam at her and she pull you up so she could kiss you, disregarding the residual wetness still coating your chin. She lays you down on the bed and hovers over you, planting kisses anywhere she can reach.

Castiel settles between your legs, your thighs are draped over her shoulders and her arms wind back up under your knees to hold your wrists tight down by your sides. She gazes up at you, her mouth nuzzling at your sex aimlessly. You don’t remember her undressing you.

Her thumbs stroke gentle circles on your wrists. “I believe it’s time for me to return the favor, En Ra O Ra.”

Your breath hitches at her Enochian. It always does; it’s musical when she speaks it. You softly ask, “What does that one mean?”

“My sun.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being patient on the last chapter y'all! I was moving apartments and just didn't have the energy or wifi to post weekly during that timeframe. So here's the next chapter a few days early, and it's a whopper! Can't wait to hear what you think. :)

_November 2008_

“You said he’s a white-eyed demon? Name’s Alastair?” you wander over to the desk in your room at Bobby’s, searching for a stray pen among the mess.

Sam nods, eyes darting to your bedroom door to ensure it’s still locked. “Yeah, know anything?”

“I can dig around, see what I find.” You jot down the titles of a few books that might be helpful on a nearby scrap of paper. “How’s Anna doing?”

“We’ve got her set up in the panic room — Ruby’s watching her.” You raise a brow. “Look, she saved Anna, can you and Dean please cut her some slack?”

“No judgment, Sam. Just wonder what Bobby would say if he knew you brought a demon into his house.”

“Bobby’s in the Dominican, and won’t even know she was here,” Sam narrows his eyes. You shrug. “Anyway, Anna’s a little shook up. There was another uh… situation.”

“What do you mean?

“Uriel and Cas showed up.”

You pause, breath catching in your chest. The last time you saw Castiel, you’d blown up at him and confessed to using hex bags and warding to hide from him. Whatever situation Sam’s about to disclose won’t likely be good. “And?”

“They wanted to kill Anna.”

“What—why?” This is wrong. Castiel isn’t blameless, but — feelings for you aside — he values humanity. Even the Castiel you know would never kill a human.

“No clue. Dean’s on his way to pick up Pamela now.”

“Pamela, the psychic?”

“Yeah, we thought she might be able to tap into Anna’s subconscious, help us figure out why demons and angels are after her, why she’s hearing angel radio.”

“Seems reasonable,” you murmur. “I’m gonna take her some water, see how she’s holding up. No offense to Ruby, but I don’t exactly see her as the caretaker type.”

Sam snorts and you have to duck under his arm to avoid his hair-ruffling hand. You meet Ruby on the staircase and pass by each other without a word. You don’t care too much for demon small talk.

In the panic room, Anna is curled up on a chair, her arms wrapped around her legs and her head on her knees. She looks defeated. Even her bright red hair looks dull and limp.

“Hey, Anna?”

She meets your eyes, hers big and brown and teary. “Are you the psychic?”

“No,” you smile and tell her your name. “I’m a friend of Sam and Dean’s. I brought you some water; wanted to see how you were holding up.”

Anna tentatively accepts the water you offer. “You mean, after finding out my parents were killed by the demons who are chasing me? I’ve been better.” She sips the water and stares at the floor.

You take a seat on the cot across from her and scuff your shoes on the floor, giving her a minute to adjust to you in her space. “It’s not easy. And it’s awful that this is happening to you.”

“It doesn’t feel real. Like I could still call them and they might answer.”

“I remember feeling that way when I lost my dad.”

Her eyes bolt up to meet yours. “Does it go away?”

The smallest glimmer of hope still shines in her eyes. You want to tell her that it does, but everyone you knew 100 years ago is long gone. You’ve had more than enough time for the pain to dull.

“Not for a long while,” you respond honestly. Her eyes dim just before she ducks her head.

“Hey.” You rest your hand on her shoulder. “Don’t close up, okay? The only way to move forward is to let others in. Love heals more than loneliness.”

Anna nods like she wants you to stop talking, but she doesn’t believe what you’re saying.

“Easy there, Pamela. Just a few more stairs,” Dean says from the staircase. You pop your head out of the panic room to see Sam at the bottom of the stairs waiting for Pamela and Dean.

“You got it, sugar,” Pamela chuckles, the stairs to Bobby’s basement creaking under their feet. By the sound of her voice, you have a feeling she knows where the stairs are, but she doesn’t want to let go of Dean’s broad shoulder.

When they reach the floor, Pamela turns toward Sam immediately. You let them catch up and catch Dean’s eye.

“Hey kiddo,” he pulls you into a one-armed hug.

“Hey, how was the drive?”

“Somethin’ else. Driving with a psychic is like going on your own self-discovery journey.”

You grin. “So you’re finally aware of how often you use humor as a defense mechanism?”

He sputters and gapes at you like a fish while Sam guides Pam over to the panic room. She talks to Anna soothingly while she prepares for the hypnosis, settling Anna onto the cot.

The induction is short and sweet, and you, Sam, and Dean perch around the room while Pamela rests her hand on Anna’s head and asks about her father. Tension fills the air as Anna trembles and refuses to divulge anything, even under hypnosis. After shaking for a minute, Anna screams, “No!” and convulses. You jump when the door slams shut on its own and the lights in the room spark.

“He’s going to kill me!” her cry echoes harshly off the metal walls. Pamela tries to calm Anna while she struggles and screeches the same fear over and over again. Dean strides over to hold Anna down, and she thrashes and sends him flying across the room. You duck to avoid the sparks from the lights, and Pamela moves to wake her.

“Anna, awaken in one, two, three.”

Her eyes flicker open, and the air in the room settles. Sam helps you up from the floor, and you tentatively gather around Anna, while Pamela brushes the hair from the woman’s face. “Anna... Anna? You all right?”

Her eyes flutter and connect with the psychic’s. She sits up and replies smoothly, “Thank you, Pamela. That helps a lot. I remember now.”

“Remember what?” Sam asks, worry and confusion etched into the wrinkles of his brow.

“Who I am.” Anna’s gaze meet yours as she scans the room, and the brown eyes are familiar — sharp and wise, and completely unlike the watery, doe-eyes from earlier.

Dean breaks the silence. “I'll bite. Who are you?”

She looks right at you and says, “I'm an angel.”

Anna, an angel? You snap your gaping jaw shut and clench your fists to keep them from shaking as memories of Castiel’s garrison leader resurface. The way she’s looking at you, you know this one is the very same Anna you remember.

As friendly as Anna had been to you in the past, you don’t know what she remembers about you and Castiel now. The last thing you need is for her to acknowledge it, causing Sam and Dean to raise too many questions that you didn’t want to answer.

“Isn’t this swell. We love angels,” Dean quips.

You raise your brow, and when Dean sees, he defensively mutters, “Shut up.”

-

You volunteer to stay with Anna so Dean and Sam can take Pamela back home. Ruby dips out pretty soon after Anna’s revelation, much to Dean’s disgust.

“Probably going to snitch on us to her boss,” he says to you under his breath.

You escape to the kitchen to make tea while the boys help Pamela out to the car. You want to catch up with Anna, but you need some space first. Anna was the first real witness to your relationship with Castiel. You won’t be able to run away from your past when you speak with her, so while the tea brews, you breathe deeply and prepare yourself. She is sitting on the couch in Bobby’s living room when you walk in with the tea.

“Anna?”

She looks up to you and smiles when she says your name. Then she frowns, “You haven’t changed.”

You join her on the couch and set the mug on the coffee table. “What happened after I last saw you?”

Anna narrows her eyes, “I should be asking you the same question.” She examines you for a moment, and when you don’t reply, she concedes. “Malachi began an attack on our faction. They wiped out almost a third of our ranks before Michael decided it would be prudent for him to get involved.”

“I’m so sorry, Anna,” you whisper.

She takes in the shock on your face, and continues. “Malachi was imprisoned alongside his inner circle: Ion, Esper, and Thaddeus, and the rest of his followers were punished. After the rebellion, Michael forbade angels from coming to Earth unauthorized. He said it inspired too much discord among us.”

You weakly nudge her shoulder with yours. “Yet here you are. You couldn’t stay away?”

She smiles softly. “No. After being on Earth, and seeing what humans experience, I wanted it, too. I was always sneaking away to watch. When Michael found out, I had to act fast so… I ripped out my own grace and fell.”

“Oh, Anna,” you mutter, grasping one of her hands. She shakes her head, but squeezes back gently.

“No, I’m happy I did. Even though I didn’t remember being an angel, I still remember everything about being Anna Milton. It was worth it. All the birthdays, friends, heartache, family, sadness, food, and pain — I wouldn’t trade it for anything.” Her voice cracks, and you clear your throat so the same doesn’t happen to you.

You smile at each other. “I’m happy for you. I really am.”

“Now tell me, what happened between you and Castiel?” You avoid her eyes. She says your name earnestly and squeezes your hand. “Please?”

“I had to run, Anna. She was scaring me,” you whisper.

Anna frowns. “But she loves you. Seeing you and Castiel together for the first time… that was my first experience of human emotion. I practically fell because I wanted what you and Castiel have.”

The statement strikes a chord in your heart, and you can’t escape the sadness it brings. The only thing you and Castiel have now is history.

“She was locking me in my own home. I couldn’t go outside without her, not to class, not to see my father—” your throat chokes up, “Anna, she made me immortal without telling me. She couldn’t stand the thought of me existing without her, or dying, or growing old and forgetting her like my Papa forgot me.”

“She wanted to protect you,” Anna replies. She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers.

You take in a shaky breath and wipe away a stray tear. “That’s not love, Anna.”

“She would do anything to protect you and keep you safe. That’s not love?”

“Anna, you weren’t there —”

“No, but I saw what you left behind,” she snaps.

Her harshness surprises you. “What?”

“Castiel spent years looking for you. We didn’t realize you’d ran; she was certain that you’d been captured. She spent so much time away from Heaven, and when she was there, she was scouring the records, waiting for your name to appear. She was lost without you, broken.”

You had known Castiel would look for you; that’s the whole reason you used sigils and spells and hex bags to begin with. But hearing what actually happened, outside of Castiel’s own account, was different. Your heart aches at the thought of her hurting, of her looking for you with tears in her eyes, of her falling to her knees and breaking down when she realizes she can’t find you. You caused her that pain.

No. You shake your head. She brought it upon herself; you had to protect yourself from the pain she was causing you. Castiel’s heartache was collateral damage because of what she did to you. That’s not your responsibility.

Anna presses on, “She stopped smiling without you there. You lit up her existence, and without you there was nothing for her to look forward to.”

“That doesn’t excuse what she did,” you protest firmly.

“Don’t you love her, too?”

You open your mouth to respond, but no words escape. Of course not, you want to say. How could I, after what she did?

“I used to,” you admit. “But she hurt me, — not physically — emotionally. I don’t know how I can ever get past that.”

“Have you even tried?” Anna’s words are on fire, blazing like the color of her hair. “If there’s one thing I learned from being human, it’s that love makes the pain worth enduring. You said it yourself, ‘love heals.’”

“That wasn’t love!” You lean forward and rest your head in your hands, fingers pulling at your hair. “People who love you shouldn’t make decisions for you and keep you hidden away like you’re a toy that only they can play with. Castiel wanted to own me. But people don’t belong to other people.”

Not belong like the way Castiel meant it anyway. You had thought it was so romantic back then, the way she called you hers. Made for each other, she said. It was all so poetic, you couldn’t see the thorns for the roses. She was new to human emotion, but that doesn’t excuse her fanatical behavior. Right?

Tears stream down your face, and you sniff and wipe them away.

Anna strokes your back calmly, “Have you seen Castiel since?”

“Yeah,” you whimper. “She— he ran into me while I was working a hunt with Sam and Dean. Kind of on accident really.”

“And?”

You turn back to her, “What do you mean?”

“Has he acted the same?”

The question made you pause, so Anna asks again, “Is he locking you up? Treating you like an object and keeping you from your friends?”

“No, but—”

“So he’s trying to be better, right? For you?”

You gape at her. Of course he’s trying. He’s trying to sneak back in when your guard is down. He was skulking outside Bobby’s just a few weeks ago. You take too long to answer, so Anna keeps on.

“Can you accept that he’s making an effort because he loves you?”

“Why are you fighting for his forgiveness, Anna? He wants to kill you.”

When she stares at you now, it’s unrelenting and intense. It makes you wonder if all angels can amplify the emotions displayed through their vessels. There’s so much of them inside.

“With Castiel, orders were always orders. He was an obedient soldier, until he met you.” She smiles. “You changed the rules for him, made him see that there is more to his existence than his orders: there is love.”

This isn’t new information for you; you’ve always known Castiel broke the angel mold when it came to emotions. But to hear Anna say it so matter-of-factly, that Castiel moved from an existence of rules and ethics to one driven by emotion— it’s no wonder that at the first sign of danger she reverted back to the rules that had kept her safe for so long.

But this time around, it’s been different. You set boundaries when you last spoke with him, and he hasn’t tried to cross them since. Even in your prior interactions, when he spoke with you over the phone during Halloween and when he showed up to save you from the shifter, those run-ins with him were not Castiel seeking you out. He was helping the Winchesters, answering a vague prayer sent in distress.

Castiel didn’t know he was hurting you, didn’t actively seek you out to harm you. His actions have always been, and still are, rooted in love.

You stand abruptly, the room spinning around you as you process the thoughts swirling in your mind. “I have to go.” You rush upstairs to the spare bedroom and lock yourself away until Sam and Dean return.

_January 1910_

“Is all of this entirely necessary, Castiel?”

She rounds on you, eyes blazing and hair whipping over her shoulder. You cower back into your seat for a second before amending, “I only mean, learning all of these sigils… won’t they affect you too? And why do I need them when you’re here?”

“Because I say you do,” she snaps, ignoring your questions. “Again, banishment sigil.”

You huff a short sigh and bend over your paper again, dragging the pen across the page into the sigil Castiel requested.

More like commanded.

She hovers over your shoulder, peering down at the warding. “Perfect. And to activate…?” She paces around to the front of the table.

“Draw it in blood, and place my hand at the center,” you rush. “Cas, I need to finish my readings for the lecture tomorrow. I can’t put my life on hold to practice drawing sigils I might never use.”

Castiel’s entire frame freezes and a chill runs through you just before she bursts.

“You won’t have a life to put on hold if you don’t know these sigils when you need them!” Castiel shouts, slamming her hands on the desk. The noise echoes through the room until there’s only the sound of Castiel’s heaving breaths. Your heart is racing and the air in the room is stifling you.

“Where are you going?” asks Castiel when you shakily stand and move toward the door.

“I need fresh air,” you say curtly. Your legs are unsteady, each step you take feels like it might be your last before you faint.

“What you need is to learn all these wardings.”

You spin on your heels to face Castiel and speak your mind, but all bravado fades when her thunderstorm eyes meet yours.

“I don’t like that you shouted at me,” you say, weakly. The sound of your feeble voice irritates you. You divert your eyes from her face and focus instead on Castiel’s elegant neck, or what little is peeking out from her high collar.

Castiel approaches and slides a knuckle under your chin to lift your gaze to her. “I wouldn’t have had to if you would believe me when I say I know what is best,” she says softly. Her thumb circles on your cheek and her hand opens up for you as you lean into her touch. “For you… and for us.”

Guilt surges through you, and you close your eyes to escape it. Of course, Castiel is only trying to protect you. And she has a point; if the extremist faction were to harm you, your studies would be the least of your concern.

You slide down onto your knees then and your hands sink into Castiel’s skirts, with your own pooling around you on the floor. You lean against her, your forehead pressing against her upper thighs through her dress.

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, holding back your tears with a shaky breath. “I don’t want you upset with me.”

“Oh, En El I,” Castiel coos. She runs a calming hand over your hair and repeats the motion until you look up at her. “Your humanity is fascinating and sometimes infuriating, but it’s what makes you you. And I love you all the more for it.”

Warmth pools in your chest, and a tear leaks out despite the smile your mouth stretches into.

She helps you to your feet and you rest your arms on her shoulders, your fingers laced together behind her neck. She runs her fingers along your forearms soothingly, a calm smile on her face.

“I love you too, Castiel,” you whisper. Her eyes brighten and crinkle with her smile. With a sweet kiss to the corner of your lips and one last stroke down your forearms, she moves around you and clamps her hands on your shoulder, guiding you back to the chair.

_November 2008_

Castiel lands outside the abandoned barn, Uriel at his side. It seems that Dean had not lied to Uriel in his dream — this was the place they were hiding Anna. The doors fly open, and both the Winchesters and Anna whirl around to face the angels when they stride inside.

She remembers. He wondered if she would regain her memory. She looks fragile without her grace, but no longer afraid.

“It’s good to see you again, Anna,” Castiel says honestly.

“How did you find us?” Sam demanded. Dean shifts and turns his face downward, but Anna finds his guilty eyes. There’s no communication between them, but Castiel envies how seamlessly she understands the situation Dean’s put them in.

Anna says, “They gave Dean a choice. They either kill me or kill you, Sam.”

It’s been so long since Castiel last had to fight his brothers and sisters — it’s a shame that this time it’s one he cared so much for. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way. I cherish our history,” he extends to his former captain.

“I understand, Castiel. Orders are orders.” Her eyes sharpen knowingly. “We obey until we can’t stand to any longer. You know what that’s like.”

Uriel stiffens next to him, but Castiel only has eyes for Anna. She reaches out to her side and grasps Dean’s hand.

“You did your best,” she whispers, offering him a kiss and molding her lips to his. It’s gentle, and Castiel swears he can see the regret pass between them. They’re mourning, he realizes. Saying goodbye, right after they found each other.

He can’t help but miss you more.

Anna pulls away and steps toward Uriel and Castiel. “I’m ready. Make it quick.”

Uriel gathers his grace to one palm and raises his hand. Before he can strike though, Alastair bursts through the back door, with the abomination’s demon in tow.

“Don’t you touch a hair on that poor girl’s head,” he snivels. “You angels have no appreciation for the performing arts. A proper kill should be creative, slow. Not the dull one-and-done hits you put out.”

The humans dart out of the way as Uriel strides toward the demon.

“Leave now, before we lay you to waste,” Castiel threatens. He won’t allow Hell to get its hands on his sister, even if she’s to die by his hands in the end.

“I’ll take my chances, you sanctimonious fanatical pricks,” Alastair sneers and Castiel sees red.

Everything happens in a blur — the demons charge on Uriel, while Castiel takes on Alastair. It’s an uneven match up; throughout the scuffle, Castiel tries to keep a fraction of his attention on Anna to ensure she doesn’t escape, but when he’s pinned by Alastair taking blows to the face, she snatches the vial of her grace from Uriel.

“Cover your eyes!” she cries to save the Winchesters, the grace seeping back into her vessel, lighting up her face.

Her grace floods the barn; Dean and Sam dutifully hide their eyes, and Castiel somberly watches his closest comrade become herself again. The light overwhelms the demons, sending them back to Hell. Anna has been his closest confidant for longer than he can remember, but her return to angelic form cements his failure in this mission, and in doing so, jeopardizes his ability to keep you safe. While the light is at its brightest, Anna’s glowing eyes meet Castiel’s. She exchanges a curt nod with him before she disappears into the night.

There’s nothing he can do now.

When the air clears, Castiel and Uriel rise to their feet. Dean is still on the ground, clearly stunned, while Sam seems to be uncovering the demon Ruby. They glance around the room, searching for Anna, on guard for Alastair.

“This isn’t over,” Uriel hisses at the Winchesters, drawing an eye roll from Dean. He flies off in a huff, and Castiel follows behind, after sending a thoughtful glance toward the Righteous Man, who didn’t seem too shocked by the turn of events.

“We failed yet again,” Uriel spits, when Castiel catches up to his flight path.

Castiel glances to his brother, wary of the way his grace boils in rage, “Were you so eager to kill our comrade, brother?”

“You’ve become complacent with failure, Castiel. One of us has to care about our mission.”

“I have always fought for our cause, Uriel,” Cas growls.

Uriel lands and Castiel follows him into a spacious forest. Uriel crowds into Castiel’s space, sneering at the dangerous look he’s given in return.

“Don’t lie to yourself, brother. You are always so distracted by humanity — by her. Even when she’s not present.”

Castiel tensely shifts his wings. “And what part of my behavior was so distracted today?”

“What did Anna mean?” Uriel seethes, “When she said you knew what it was like to obey until you couldn’t, what did she mean by that?”

“Anna is delusional, and a traitor.” Castiel owes no explanation to Uriel. His loyalty to Heaven will not be questioned, especially when he’s worked so hard to ensure every action he takes aligns with its cause.

“She was also our captain for eons and was the only one who knew your whereabouts when you disappeared on Earth during the Second Great Angel War. When you met that mud monkey of a girl.”

The words are no sooner out of Uriel’s mouth before Castiel pins him against a now-splintered tree, the weight of his true form pressing against Uriel. Castiel’s wings tightly hold down Uriel’s to keep him from escaping.

“I have warned you against disrespecting our Father’s creation with that language before, brother. I will not tolerate it.”

“And I have warned you that your favor for these humans is treasonous!” Uriel’s tone makes Castiel jolt — his whole being is in that tone, echoing higher than the skies above them.

He’s calling for backup.

“Uriel—” Castiel tries to expand, but Uriel isn’t lying back. His wings are gaining ground on Castiel’s, and his vessel is sweating from the effort being put forth by the angel within.

“Not this time, Castiel,” Uriel booms. Castiel feels the looming presence of other angels joining them. “I won’t be walked all over by you any longer.”

His brothers and sisters team up on him, pulling his limbs away from Uriel; before he can put up a fight, a palm presses against his forehead and everything goes dark.

_November 2008_

The boys are exhausted when they return from retrieving Anna’s grace. No one expected it to be a milk run, but you feel a pang of guilt for not being there to help when everything nearly went to shit.

“So Anna’s got her grace back?”

“Yeah, who knows where she went though.” Dean flops onto the couch.

Sam kicks his shoes off at the door. “Sure messed up the angels’ plan. They bailed once she got it back — must have been a pretty powerful angel back in the day.” He stretches and pads over to the armchair next to you.

“Yeah, they don’t want to mess with their former garrison captain,” you scoff.

Dean raises a brow. “When’d she tell you about that?”

His skepticism gives you pause. “Huh?”

“Anna being head honcho over Cas and Junkless. You were out on a supply run when she told us.”

You feign annoyance at Dean, even though your heart pounds faster in your chest. “When you all drove Pamela back. We talked.”

“That’s a pretty big thing to talk about and not bring up when we got back.” Dean sits up and leans over the armrest to look you square in the eyes.

“Knock it off, Dean. Anna told us herself anyway, what’s it matter?” Sam butts in, tossing a pillow at Dean’s face.

The pillow misses, and Dean’s eyes narrow at you. “Kid, I think it’s about time you ‘fessed up to why you tried to run when we first called you in.”

You feel like the air has been knocked out of your lungs. “What?” you breathe.

Dean stands and paces, scratching his head while he thinks out loud, “You freaked and almost ran out on us when I said Castiel’s name way back when we first brought you into this mess. Couldn’ta been the apocalypse, ‘cause Sammy told you about it before you even drove up here.”

Sam sits up a little straighter in his chair, brows furrowed as his eyes flick between you and Dean.

“He acted all kinds of weird around you back at that bar when Sam was out with his demon girlfriend being an idiot,” Dean counts off on another finger, ignoring Sam’s doubletake and glare. “He knew your name then, too, and ever since then he acts all funky when we mention you around him. Not to mention you had all that warding up around Bobby’s and practically force fed us hex bags to keep the angels off our tail. But then you have us drop them out of nowhere, and you were cool as a cucumber with Anna even after all the angel stuff.”

Dean stops pacing and appraises you, gauging your reaction. You’re trying to keep a steady face, but your heart is in your stomach at this point. “It’s never been about angels in general — it’s always been about Castiel.”

You face Sam, hoping he’ll wave off Dean’s accusations, maybe give you a lie to jump off of. But he’s soberly watching you. It’s too much. You stand, hands hanging by your side while your fingers shake.

Sam says your name earnestly, and he’s standing by you when he reaches out and places a firm hand on your shoulder. “This is getting too big to keep from us. Please… just let us in.”

“You guys are seriously overreacting,” you bluff. Hard. After over a century on Earth, you’ve learned a trick or two. It’s believable, you know it is. You’ve used the same lilt in your tone, the same befuddled gaze, the same lift of your brows many times before. It’s the perfect image of innocence. “Guys, I seriously just remembered the name Castiel from my research on angels. She’s an angel known in a few pieces of lore for invoking destruction and I just got spooked. But now that we’re all working together, it’s fine.”

Sam and Dean meet eyes, so you press on, “Angels know all humans’ names, and she could probably sense how put off I was at first, so that’s why she acted so weird—”

“It’s the third time you’ve done that,” Dean cuts you off, looking at you like you’re a witness in a case. “And you know what they say about threes.”

“They make a pattern,” Sam completes. “You keep calling Cas ‘she.’”

Fuck. You swallow, trying to think with your brain moving like molasses in your panic. Anna’s return has you in knots. It’s why you offered to stay behind while they looked for her grace. Everything you spoke with her about has been rattling around in your head nonstop.

“Cut the bullshit.” Dean has always been too good at reading you. You think it’s because Sam introduced you to him just after he left college, and Dean was suspicious about why Sam cut off every other college friend, but not you. It’s how they found out you were a hunter — Dean just looking out for his baby brother, picking up clues where you didn’t realize you’d left them.

Dean’s eyes are still focused on you, still narrowed, and you know the only way out of this one is the truth. You stare at your hands, trembling in your lap, and sigh. “Castiel… She used to be— he has occupied a female vessel before.”

Sam’s brows furrow, his confusion obviously deepening. “What does that have to do—”

“Woah, woah, woah, back up,” Dean holds out his hands to interrupt Sam again. “You’re talking about Cas like you’ve met him before.”

Your eyes flicker between Sam and Dean while you chew on your lip. With everything that’s been going on lately, it’s time they knew the truth in its entirety. It’ll come out eventually. Better to hear it from you than from Castiel.

“Because I have.”

Sam’s eyebrows fly up at the same time Dean’s jaw drops open.

“What… what are you talking about, Smalls?” Sam asks gently.

You take in a deep breath. “I met Castiel a long time ago. In 1908 to be exact.” The boys exchange looks.

“That’s impossible, you’d have to be at least —”

“I know. And I am,” you cut Sam off.

His face is still covered in shock and confusion and hurt as he finishes, “...at least 100 years old.”

“I’m 125, to be exact.” You glance down at your hands in your lap, bracing yourself for their next reaction.

“You gonna give us more than that, kid?” Dean’s voice is harsher, accusing, but when you meet his eyes what you see most is concern.

“It’s a long story. I was at university, going for my master’s in theology and religious studies. Castiel was on Earth for a mission when we… met. From there, everything snowballed. Our relationship was unprecedented.”

“Your relationship?”

“Dean, dude.” Sam gives his brother a pointed look.

“What?”

Ignoring Dean, you continue on, “She’d never experienced humanity that closely or been so invested in it before. In one person. Angels experience emotions differently than we do. It’s much more intense and confusing for them. As if love isn’t already confusing enough for humans.” You clench your shaking fingers into a fist. “She, uh. She didn’t want to think about outliving me. So she eliminated the possibility.”

The air is thin and you can’t really breathe, but Sam keeps you from drifting away, grounds you with his hands on yours. “He— she stopped you from aging?” You nod. “Did you ever even want this?”

“I don’t think she ever thought to ask.”

Sam’s hands twitch and Dean swipes a hand over his mouth and jaw. No one says anything for a while.

“Kid, I—” Dean croaks. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t,” you shake your head and free your hands from Sam’s. “I’ve made my peace. I’ve done a lot of good and I don’t have any regrets.” Their faces are heart-wrenching, so you add, “Besides, where would you all be today without me? Probably dead in a ditch somewhere while the world goes to shit.”

Sam gulps and tears his eyes away. Dean tries for a smile.

“Whatever you need,” Sam says. “We’ll help you. We can put the wardings back up, keep her, uh, him from—”

“Castiel doesn’t want to hurt me, Sam. At least, he doesn’t mean to.” Their eyes meet again, and you scoff. “Guys, stop. I’ve healed a lot over the past century. I was just caught off guard when he came back, and since then I’ve stood my ground. Laid boundaries. This shit can wait until the world isn’t in danger.”

Dean strides over and pulls you into a hug. “Fine,” he grumbles into your hair. “Cas makes one funny move though, or you feel off about him being around us, just say the word. And no more secrets.”

Sam stands and you turn to embrace him, too. “Okay, “ you agree. “No more secrets.”

“Don’t know about you guys, but I’ve had enough of angels and demons for a while.” Dean picks up his long-forgotten beer bottle from the coffee table and downs the rest. “I say, bed. Then tomorrow we can take a break from the Seals and have a nice, normal hunt.”

“You said it,” Sam huffs. He presses his lips to your temple and heads toward the stairs, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder as he passes him.

“Hey kid,” Dean’s tone stops you from tidying up the papers and books scattered around. He sits on the coach again, waiting until the stairs stop creaking under Sam’s feet before he speaks again. “No more secrets means I gotta come clean with you, too.”

You take a seat next to him and gently press your shoulder to his.

“Don’t lecture me about keeping this from Sam either. We already hashed this out, I just. There’s no need to throw it in his face again.”

“It’s okay, Dean,” you soothe.

He sniffs and looks away, and it takes you back to when you first met the guy. Dean had discovered your hunter secret back then too, which lead to Sam asking for your help on their mission to gank Azazel. As serious as everything was then, Dean had been, and still is, too young for everything he’s been through. He looks young again like that now, with his trembling lip and vulnerability painted across his face.

“Y’know in Hell, they don’t just torture you cause they can,” he starts, voice shaky. “They do, but there’s another reason, too.” He clears his throat. “They rip into you, and a day feels like months. And at the end of every one, they try to... recruit you.”

He runs a hand over his face, hiding his tears before they can spill over. “Alastair told me it could all be over. I could get off the rack if I put souls on, and for years, _decades_ , I said no.”

Dean stiffens up, trying to hold back whatever emotions are trying to escape, and you decide you don’t need him to tell you what happens next. You push aside the coffee table and get to your knees on the floor in front of him. Dean turns his head away, tries to avoid your eyes, but you clamp your hands on either side of his face and press your forehead to his.

“Dean, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

His salty tears wet your thumbs, and you brush them away. “Dean, hey. You are human. No one would expect you to hold out forever.”

“No secrets, right,” he mumbles. “Kid, you don’t get it. It’s not just that I caved. There’s a twisted part of me that liked it.” He grabs your wrists and yanks your hands off his face. “How can I live with myself? After all that?”

“Same way I learned to, Dean,” you whisper. “You think running from a freaking angel was easy? That I never thought about ending this curse of immortality myself? Just putting an end to it so I could be done with the hiding and the fear and my feelings?”

Dean’s grip on your hands softens.

“I hate myself for how Castiel made me feel. And I hate myself for keeping this shitty gift of his.” You steady your breath, “But the past is the past, Dean. We can only move forward. One day at a time.” You climb back onto the couch next to him, and the two of you sit and drink and hold each other until you pass out on each other’s shoulders.


	7. Chapter 7

_December 2008_

The Roadhouse is quiet tonight, off-brand for the boisterous hunter hangout. To be fair, you and the boys had been helping Jo and Ellen on a hunt the past week. Surprisingly, running around chasing monsters at night isn’t the best for business, and the pack of ghoul-pires you were hunting down wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.

“Dean, it’s a nachzehrer, not a ‘ghoul-pire,’” Sam groans for the hundredth time that night.

“Sure, Sammy.” Dean rolls his eyes and leans over the pool table, lining up his cue for another game-winning shot. He turns to face you briefly and mouths, “Ghoul-pire!” before winking and sinking the last striped ball on the table.

Jo starts setting up for the next round, and you hand over your stick. “I never did get the hang of this game,” you chuckle. “Too many angles.”

Dean pipes up with, “I’m telling you, kid, it’s not about the angles. It’s about the stroke.”

Jo snorts and quickly checks to see if Ellen heard. She’s preoccupied with pouring the next round, so when you make eye contact with Jo, you give her an exaggerated wink. The two of you burst out laughing at Dean’s expense.

“Hey! That’s— stop it— not what I meant,” he sputters a bit.

“That’s not a line you use on the ladies, Dean?” you tease. “It’s such a winner!”

He huffs and pouts while he racks up the rest of the balls. Sam joins Ellen in carrying over the next round of beer.

“I’m out on this one, guys,” you wave. “I should probably get back.”

Dean lets out a low whistle, and you whack his arm.

“Don’t tell me you forgot about your date tonight,” Sam joins in. “Better hurry home so you don’t miss it.”

“I didn’t forget. I was busy hunting ghoul-pires with you losers.” You tug on your coat, checking for your keys, wallet, and phone, before catching Ellen’s amused grin.

“Drive home safe, kiddo,” she says. “Don’t worry about the boys, I’ll show them how to really play pool.”

You laugh, Jo’s giggles and the boys’ protests fading as the door to the Roadhouse swings shut behind you. The air outside is brisk, but not so cold that you can’t breathe in deeply and pause to admire how many stars there are in the sky tonight.

The truck engine rattles, but turns over, and you’re on your way back home. The radio has some static, jumping between Gary Jules and Death Cab for Cutie, but you don’t bother to mess with it.

_All around me are familiar faces_   
_Worn-out places, worn-out faces_   
_Bright and early for their daily races_   
_Going nowhere, go—_

—see the potential  
The potential of you and me  
It's like a book elegantly bound  
But in a language that you can't read—

_—find it kind of funny_   
_I find it kind of sad_   
_The dreams in which I'm dying_   
_Are the best I've ever—_

—gotta spend some time love  
You gotta spend some time with me  
And I know that you'll find love  
I will possess your heart—

The headlights of your truck light the way up the driveway, and once it’s parked, you cut the engine and head inside. The lights are on, and the scent of warm apples and cinnamon wafts out of the kitchen. As much as she complains about the taste of molecules, she loves to cook for you.

“Are you baking pie?” you call out.

Castiel peeks her head out from the kitchen. “Smells fantastic, doesn’t it?” She smiles sweetly and tosses the dish towel she’s holding over her shoulder, heading toward you with open arms. “Welcome home.”

“Hey, Cas,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around her waist and burrowing your face against her neck. “Missed you.”

“And I missed you,” she presses her lips to your head. “How did the hunt go? Did anyone get hurt?”

“No, it was good. Everyone’s fine, just scrapes and bruises like usual. Thanks for helping us figure out what those creeps were.”

“Of course,” Castiel leads you into the kitchen so she can take care of the pie. “Did Dean give them another one of his made-up monster names?”

“He called them ghoul-pires.” Castiel snorts in response, and you laugh at her mock-disgust. She pulls the pie from the oven and sets it out to cool.

“Naturally. I know it’s late, but do you still want to catch that movie?”

“Actually, I had a better idea.” You walk up behind Castiel, set your hands on her hips, and rest your chin on her shoulder.

“I love when you have ideas,” she teases. “Go on, what is it?”

“I was thinking we could lie outside and look at the stars together.”

Castiel doesn’t respond right away. Instead, she turns in your arms slowly, until her hands are holding your face and she’s kissing you, her lips spread into a grin. She pulls back just enough to say, “Perfect,” but then her lips are on yours again.

When you both finally pull away, you agree to divide and conquer: Castiel will grab all the blankets and pillows she can, and you’ll heat up some hot chocolate and slice the pie. When you meet her outside, she’s standing by the bed of your truck wearing thick socks, tan slacks, and a baby blue cardigan. The truck bed has pillows stacked around the edges, and blankets spilling off the tailgate.

She takes the tray carrying the pie and hot chocolate and sets it out of the way, then turns and holds her hand out for you to take. You do, and Castiel delicately presses her lips to each knuckle, lingering on the skin between your thumb and index finger. She helps you climb up into the truck bed and follows behind.

The two of you burrow into the blankets and pillows, plates full of pie resting on your laps and warm hot chocolate mugs in your hands. You take turns feeding each other forks full of apple, cinnamon goodness, wiping crumbs off the other’s chin when you pile too much pie on the fork and it misses.

After the pie is gone and only the dregs of hot chocolate are left in the mugs, you both lie on your backs. You tuck yourself under Castiel’s arm and rest your head on her shoulder, and you watch the stars.

It’s hours later when you and Castiel get cold enough to head inside. You’re both quiet, gently brushing shoulders as you carry in the dishes and plethora of blankets and pillows. Castiel offers to wash the dishes and take care of the leftover pie so you can prepare for bed, and you kiss her goodnight before heading upstairs.

“So this is your deepest desire.”

The voice nearly makes you slip on the next step, and you grab the handrail for balance before looking for the source: a man’s silhouette at the top of the stairs.

“Even now,” he muses. He turns his face away from a photo on the wall — it’s a photo you and Castiel took with a disposable camera on vacation in Rome — and when his face comes into the light, you recognize it.

“Castiel?” You just left her downstairs, but he’s right in front of you. You know it’s him, never mind how.

His astounded expression gives way to a relieved smile. “En El I.”

“What are you—” you glance over your shoulder, expecting to see your Castiel standing behind you, “What’s happening? You’re her.”

Castiel’s smile fades away and worry clouds his eyes. “You don’t know where you are.”

Wherever this version of Castiel came from, you know he cares deeply for you. He’s so worried, and you’re so confused, all you can do is comfort him. “I’m home,” you reply. “Our home, Cas.”

A familiar crease appears between his brows, and you want to kiss it and brush it smooth like you have before with your Castiel; when the stray dog you both took in ran away, or when Sam and Dean’s dad died.

You step up the stairs toward him. “Hey,” you ask softly, “is something wrong?”

Castiel gapes at you for a moment and shakes his head. Then he changes his mind. “Yes, there is. This is wrong. It feels right, but it isn’t real.”

“What do you mean it isn’t real?”

“You have to remember,” he pleads. “It’s the only way to wake you.”

“But I am awake right now. What are you talking about?”

“This isn’t real,” he repeats. “It’s a dream, a hallucination from djinn poison.”

“We haven’t hunted a djinn in over a year, Cas.” Your memory is a bit dim, but you know it’s been at least that long. “There’s no way a djinn would have me under that long.”

“You were on a hunt this week in the real world.” He’s getting agitated now. “You need to realize this isn’t real. It’s had you under for only an hour, but I—” his voice breaks, “I don’t know how much longer you have. It’s killing you quickly.”

“Cas, I’m fine,” you step onto the landing and reach out for his cheek. “I’m right here. I’m okay.”

He leans into your hand, closing his eyes and breathing deeply.

When he opens them, he asks, “Don’t you remember? I was never this good to you. Not really.”

“Castiel—”

He grasps your wrist, the tears threatening to pour from his eyes commanding your attention. “You know it’s true. You can’t even remember how we got where we are in this world. Because we wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t gone behind your back. All so I could make you immortal.”

“Immortal? I’m not immortal.”

Castiel pushes harder, “Think, En El I. How did we meet? How long ago?”

You can’t remember, but you don’t know why that matters. Everything is perfect and fine here. It bothers you though, that you can’t remember. When did you meet her? You clutch your head and think. You were in grad school, but when did you graduate? You search the frames on the walls, and rush past Castiel to the wall where your diploma hangs.

It’s yellowed and faded over the years, but the black ink still clearly shows the year 1912.

“That can’t be.” You turn again to the Castiel at the top of the stairs. “It’s 2008, I can’t possibly have graduated that long ago.”

You’d have to be over 100 years old. You look at the backs of your hands, weathered from hunting, but still young. They run over your face, searching for wrinkles, finding none. A flood of memories hits you then, and you stumble down the staircase. “Cas,” you call out, frightened. “What’s happening to me? Where am I?”

The Castiel on the landing is calling your name, but so is your Castiel from the bottom of the steps. You turn between them, their faces blurring together. Which one do you reach for, which one is real?

You hold out your hand for Castiel, but before either one can grab hold, you collapse.

-

Your head really fucking hurts.

Everything is dark, but lifting your heavy eyelids seems like a wasted effort. Instead you focus on your heartbeat, thrumming along slowly. Someone says your name too loudly, and you wince from the pain that shoots like lightning through the ache you’re already feeling.

“There you go, open your eyes now,” the voice is softer this time.

It takes a moment, but you blink your eyes open and your surroundings come into clearer view. Bright, wide blue eyes framed by a wrinkled brow and a frown are the first thing you see.

“Cas,” you breathe. She’s here. Why is she here?

You squeeze your eyes closed and roll on the floor to your side, trying to remember how you got here. A phone call. The Roadhouse. Ellen and Jo. A djinn hunt. An empty warehouse and then an ambush—

So that’s where the pain from the back of your head is coming from.

“Fucking djinns,” you croak. Behind you, Castiel grunts.

You carefully sit up and look at him. “How did you get here?”

“I flew.”

You shake your head, but that makes you dizzy, so you stop immediately. “No. How did you know where to find me? Did Ellen call Dean and Sam?”

“I’m not sure if they know you are missing,” Castiel pauses. “You… called out for me. I arrived as quickly as I could.”

“I called out for you,” you echo. “In the djinn dream you mean?”

Castiel nods, but doesn’t say anything. You look away from him and see the djinn a few yards away, lying on the ground. Its eyes are open, but empty.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “For saving me.”

“Of course.”

He helps you stand and offers to incinerate the djinn for you, but you decline.

“I want to burn the fucker.”

You grab its legs with Castiel hoisting its shoulders, and you carry it away from its nest and anything flammable in the warehouse. Castiel doesn’t interrupt while you douse it with the lighter fluid that you keep in the bed of your truck and toss a lit match on its chest.

After watching the djinn’s face burn from blistering red to charcoal black, you check your phone for calls and texts from the boys or Ellen — there’s a text from Sam asking how things are going and another three from Ellen. The most recent one demands an update by eleven tonight before she chases you down after Jo’s asleep. It’s not 10:30 p.m. yet, so you shoot her a quick message.

_I’m good — djinn is ganked. Phone died and I left my charger at home. I’m charging up at a gas station, then heading home. Thanks, E._

Castiel waits with you in silence until the djinn’s ashes finish smoldering.

“Would you like me to take you home?”

“No.” The word is out before you can even give his offer a second thought. Castiel’s shoulders sag, and you curse yourself internally. “Sorry. I’m still not... I don’t know if I can—”

Castiel nods before you finish, but Anna’s words tug at your conscience. _Can you accept that he’s making an effort?_

You head out to your truck, and close your eyes while the cool breeze kisses your forehead. Even though you just woke up, you’re exhausted. Your eyes feel better when they’re closed.

“Hey, Castiel,” you say softly, part of you hoping he doesn’t quite hear you. You glance to your right and he’s there, waiting for you to finish. “Actually, would you— my hotel isn’t too far, but I’m—”

He agrees before you finish your thought. “The djinn had been draining you for a while. I’d be surprised that you’re standing now but,” he pauses and offers up a sad smile, “you always were so strong.”

Castiel helps you into the passenger seat of your truck, and he slides into the driver seat. He clears his throat, puts both hands on the steering wheel, and frowns.

“Turn the key,” you help. “Hold the brake—that’s the pedal near your feet on the left side—and pull this until it’s in drive. There you go. Now the pedal next to the brakes is the gas. Don’t push too hard. Perfect. Turn left here, and go straight until you see a sign for Super 8. That’s where I’m staying.”

Castiel’s hands are white, gripping tight to the steering wheel. He spots the stop sign on the next street and slows the truck carefully to a standstill. His driving is steady and careful.

“You’ve been quiet. Sam and Dean said they saw you a few weeks ago, but haven’t heard from you since.”

“I was in Heaven.” The way he says it is clipped, though that could be due to his concentration on driving. Still, you feel like something didn’t go well.

“Sounds serious. Are we losing too many Seals?”

“Yes, but they called me to address an unrelated issue.”

“An issue that couldn’t wait until after we stopped the apocalypse?”

Castiel huffs in agreement. “According to them, no. My actions of late are making them uneasy regarding where my loyalties lie.”

“How so?”

“You don’t need to concern yourself. It was hardly a slap on the wrist.” Castiel quiets as he carefully brakes again. The same old song and dance from before.

Castiel clears his throat. Then, “I’ve been warned that my... preferential behavior toward humans must not continue.” Castiel meets your eyes, ignoring your gaping mouth, and continues, ”Uriel wasn’t too pleased with how often I’ve been siding with the Winchesters.”

You snap your jaw shut and peel your eyes off his to stare out the window. This is… new. Castiel never willingly shared information with you that he deemed none of your concern.

“Sounds like Uriel’s the one being disloyal,” you snark. “Running back to heaven and tattling on his boss.”

Castiel snorts, and pulls into the hotel parking lot. “This is where you’re staying, right?”

“Yeah, home sweet hotel.” Castiel nods, but doesn’t move to get out of the car. “You, uh. Wanna come in for a minute?”

Castiel looks taken aback, and you quickly amend, “It’s just. We haven’t spoken since—” you pause a moment, trying to think before the djinn dream and all the fuzzy manufactured memories rattling around in your head.

“Since you had the Winchesters get rid of their hex bags.” The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirks up a bit.

“Yeah.”

The quirk grows into a shy smile. You haven’t seen that from this new vessel yet — his brows are always furrowed and lips pressed thin. It’s nice.

Castiel pulls the keys from the ignition and it hits you that the silence you’ve been sitting in is actually comfortable. You follow Castiel out of the truck and lead the way toward your room. The lot is quiet except for your steps echoing off the asphalt.

The lock clicks and when you flick the light on, you’re met with the sight of your books and journals scattered over the bed, and a few weapons spread out on the table. You carefully remove the vial of lamb’s blood from your jacket pocket and place it on the table with your silver knife, then toss the hotel key and your jacket on the bed.

“Drink?” you offer. You keep a bottle of rum with you on hunts if you ever need to disinfect a wound, but it’s nice when you actually get to drink it. He nods, so you pour a round in the hotel’s complimentary paper coffee cups and sit at the small table where the fewest amount of weapons lay, Castiel off to your left.

He takes a sip and scrunches his face. “How do you like those molecules?” you tease.

“They’re different. I think I like tea better.”

“Booze can be be an acquired taste.”

Castiel raises his cup toward you and goes for another swig. He sets it on the table, folding his hands in his lap and glances around the room. Notes are taped to one of the empty walls, and many of the books on the bed are spread open. “You were in a hurry for this hunt.”

“Being in a hurry saves innocent lives. I have to get it right, but I have to do it fast.”

“You mentioned an Ellen back at the warehouse. Was she your backup?”

“She was supposed to tag along if I found anything, but she’s an hour or so out. I found out it was a djinn right before the next feeding was going to start. I couldn’t wait.”

Castiel nods. There it is again. His composed demeanor is putting you on edge. You’re waiting for the lecture, for his eyes to burn and his voice to raise while he rants about your safety, but it never comes. You drink again, hiding your pursing lips and thinking.

He leans back in the chair, and hums thoughtfully. “The Winchesters are so much like you. Fighting for every individual soul on Earth even while the world is ending.”

“Yeah, well. We have to at least try, don’t we? What’s it all for, all this work stopping the Seals from being broken, if we can’t save the lives that are here now?”

Castiel lays his eyes on you, warm and sobering all at once. “‘What’s it all for?’” he repeats. “I imagine my brothers would say it’s for destiny. What happens is meant to be.” He looks down. “Dean doesn’t like that response too much. I know you’re not fond of it either.”

“Because it feels like giving up. Like a cop out.” Your eyes meet again and you clamp down on the sudden urge to reach out for his hand, his arm, anything. “One person can do so much. Why wouldn’t we at least try?”

Castiel smiles softly, and you avoid staring by taking another gulp of rum.

While the burn races down your throat and into your gut, you say, “Be honest, how much time do we have? With the Seals, I mean.”

Castiel nurses his own drink for a moment and lifts his shoulders. “It’s hard to say. They’re well over halfway broken, and each one seems to come faster than the last. We could have months or just mere weeks.”

You laugh coldly — the world could be over by the new year. “Wow. Merry Christmas to all, huh.” You sit on that for a minute, down the rest of your drink, and refill your cup before speaking again. “They don’t deserve it, Castiel.”

He watches you.

“Dean and Sam are good. Bobby, Ellen, Jo…” your voice cracks. “I know humanity is problematic, but they’re so young. At least compared to me. They deserve to live.”

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “And you think you don’t?”

“I _have_ lived, Castiel. For so long.” The rum in your cup dances as you twist your wrist. “I’ve been waiting for my time without an end in sight. It’s unnatural for humans.”

He doesn’t speak. Just watches as you stare into your cup.

“I thought about doing it myself. Summoned a reaper once, just to see how far away my time was. Spoiler alert, he wouldn’t spill.” You’re treading on thin ice now. In the back of your mind, you wonder if you’re testing his limits to see if he’s really changed. Is that so wrong? You have a right to know.

Carefully, he replies, “But you didn’t.”

Because you were scared he’d be waiting for you on the other side. You look away. “Because I can do good here. I have done good here. So many more hunters know about demons and have refined spells or even cures for some monsters because of me. And they don’t know it, but I do. And that’s enough for me. I did my part.”

“And if your part isn’t finished?” He’s using that tone, the one that makes questions sound rhetorical.

You screw the cap back on the rum and toss the cup in the trash. “It was nice in the dream. Forgetting I was immortal. That’s all.”

“Was that the only nice part?” That pulls your eyes back to his instantly.

He sounds so desperate, so hungry for you to say out loud what you both know. What the djinn knew — your deepest desire wasn’t mortality, or even a normal life without hunting and demons and angels.

It’s Castiel.

He says your name, and suddenly it doesn’t just sound like he’s asking you to respond — it’s like he’s telling you, expecting your answer, waiting for you to go back to him.

“You need to leave.” Your voice shakes, but you stand quickly and move several steps away, feeling safer with your back to him and the distance between you. “Go. Please.”

The chair squeaks behind you, but the rustle of wings echoes in the room. When you turn, Castiel is gone. You don’t bother making a hex bag or warding the room. You just crawl under the covers, books and all still littered across the sheets, and you cry. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had the most fun writing this chapter. Enjoy!

_December 2008_

You’re so goddamn tired of being too far away when Sam and Dean need you. Sam’s call has you on your feet, packing up your stuff scattered around the hotel room before you even know where you’re going. “What do you mean the angels have Dean?” you hiss.

“They have Alastair. Uriel thinks he knows who’s killing the angels and that Dean can get it out of him.” Sam sounds tense, clipped.

“What, are they gonna force Dean to torture him?”

“Sounds like it. Ruby’s on her way and we’re gonna find him.”

You frown and pause your packing. “You called Ruby before me?”

Sam sigh grates your ears through the static of the phone. “Yeah, I’m trying to keep you safe—”

“Damn it, Sam,” you shout. “I’m a hundred years older than you, I don’t need you sheltering me just because you know about me and Castiel now.”

“You’re too far out anyway.” There’s rustling, and Sam says something muffled. “Listen, Ruby’s here. I’ll take care of this.”

The line goes dead before you can open your mouth. You stare at the screen until it goes black and toss it with a huff on the hotel bed, then kick the chair that’s nearest to you, exclaiming, “Fuck!”

Sam didn’t even tell you where he and Dean were — they could be on the other side of the country. With how many Seals were left to be broken, you and the boys had split up to cover more ground. It made sense at the time. Except you lost track of where they were sometime last week. And now the angels have Dean, and Sam is being stupid.

You throw together a tracking spell for Dean in a heartbeat from the ingredients you keep in your travel bag. Finding him isn’t really the issue — time is. The map crinkles slowly on the table while you repeat the incantation, until only the southeast corner of Wyoming is left.

“Fuck.”

Almost 20 hours away. You fall back into a chair, head sinking into your hands while you wrack your brain trying to think of any way to get to Wyoming in even half the time.

The answer practically smacks you in the face.

“Anna?” you pray. “I could really use your help down here.”

The flutter of wings has you whirling around in seconds. Anna looks older somehow, like remembering she’s an angel aged her vessel. Maybe that’s just a side effect of war.

“Now you want to talk?” she asks.

“No, now I need to fly. Can you get me to Cheyenne, Wyoming?” You’re packing up the rest of your bag before she can answer.

She frowns and scolds you, “I’m not a taxi service for humans.”

“I know, Anna. It’s Dean. Castiel and Uriel have him,” you rush. “Please, trust me. He needs us.”

Anna examines your face for a moment, then nods. She closes her eyes and uses her grace to search for an angelic presence in Cheyenne.

“Ready?” she asks. You throw your bag over your shoulder and latch onto her arm.

Humans always talk about flying like it’s freedom, but you know it’s a kind of chaos they’re not equipped to handle. Flying with an angel is incomparable to any single human experience. At the very least, it can be described as an amalgamation — the breathlessness of your scream while racing downhill on a roller coaster, the burning cold prickling of arctic waters on your skin, blotchy spots that hinder your sight after you stare into the sun too long, the searing sting of ozone in your nose and lungs. It’s enough to make anyone sick upon landing.

You’re too focused on getting to Dean to notice.

-

Castiel is leaning over a grimy table across the room, his head turned toward a door where screaming and clanking metal leaks through, when Anna’s presence enters the room. His shoulders tense when a soft glow fills his peripherals — Anna is not alone.

“Anna,” he growls. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Her voice echoes in the empty room, hard and metallic. “I should ask the same of you, Castiel. Why are you making Dean do this?”

“He’s doing God’s will. Why are you putting her in harm’s way?” He turns finally, narrowed eyes immediately pinning you to the spot with a burning intensity.

“I asked her to.” Castiel wants to admire how unwavering you are, how your chin tilts up ever so slightly in rebellion. Of course you would endanger yourself for the sake of a Winchester.

However, your insistence on recklessness and disobedience is far from amusing. His jaw ticks, and his eyes shift between you and Anna, finally boring into yours like he’s counting every molecule you’re made of. “This is—”

“None of my concern? Bullshit.” You march up to him, matching his glare. “Dean is my friend, and you don’t need him for this.”

He snarls, “That’s not your call or mine to make.”

“Then where is Uriel?” Anna asks.

Castiel tears his eyes away from yours only for a moment. “He’s seeking revelation.” He brings them back so you’re the focal point again. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“If it’s too dangerous for me, then it’s too dangerous for Dean,” you retort. “I’ll leave when he does.”

Coolly, Castiel says, “Anna, a word?”

Anna waits for your curt nod before heading to the exit behind you.

Castiel’s eyes shift from the offensive to implore, “I wouldn’t be asking this of him if there was any other way.” He says your name softly while his brows wrinkle, then he sighs, big and exhausted and long. “I swear it.”

For only a moment, Castiel sees the wall come down. Your lips turn up in the corner and your hand lifts — whether to embrace his hand or rub his shoulder, Castiel will never know, because you jerk it back to your side suddenly and coldly, your face turning away from his.

Resigned, Castiel steps toward Anna, past you, allowing your shoulders to brush gently along the way.

Outside, Anna doesn’t face Castiel immediately. She gazes up at the stars and asks, “You trust her not to interrupt Dean?”

He sighs. “I want to. There is a sigil on the door to keep it locked, should it be needed.”

“How can you believe that this torture, even for a demon, is the will of God?” She turns to face him then.

“Who else would it come from, Anna?” Castiel is exasperated by her already.

“Castiel, you have already experienced doubt—”

He marches toward her, towering over her vessel. “Do not presume to know what I feel.”

Anna doesn’t back away. “I don’t intend to put her in harm’s way, you know.”

“You already have.”

She flinches and retaliates. “And putting Dean in a room with Hell’s master torturer isn’t endangering him?”

“I have a modicum of control over her safety, because Heaven does not yet view her as a tool which they can use and discard. Dean’s fate, however, is and has been out of my hands.”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“What you are implying is blasphemy. Treason against Heaven.”

“You would do it for her.”

The statement gives him pause. She means he would fall for you. He has fallen in some ways: from his post as captain of his garrison, from your good graces, and of course, in love with you. But falling from Heaven. He shakes his head. He’d be powerless to protect you. If it came down to it, if he had to choose between Heaven and your safety, Castiel would fall. Of course he would. But you’re safer this way, with a guardian angel watching over you.

Anna interrupts his thoughts. “I know humans are not revered by angels the way God wanted them to be. I didn’t see it at first. Being stationed on earth felt like a burden for so long. That all changed because of you. Seeing you with her, Castiel — the love you shared — it’s what I fell for.”

Castiel sets his jaw. Foolish Anna. “Then you fell for nothing. Now, go. The next time I see you, I’m following through on our orders to kill you on sight.”

Anna’s sad eyes hold on to Castiel’s until she disappears. Castiel takes a moment to collect himself, then he flies back inside.

-

Alastair stalks toward you, grinning sickeningly. Dean is in a heap on the ground behind him, bloodied and unconscious where he fell after Alastair choked him.

Breaking through the sigil that Castiel had used to lock the door didn’t seem like your best idea at the moment, but if you hadn’t, Dean would be dead by now. Spells roll through your mind as you try to find one to slow Alastair down enough to get Dean to safety. “ _Age nunc intellectum. Age nunc intellectum atque voluntatem omnem meam_!”

Alastair’s steps falter. His hands clutch either side of his head in an attempt to stop the intense ringing in his ears from the spell. You dash around him to get to Dean, but Alastair recovers before you get to him, and he flings you against the nearest wall. The impact of your head against the hard surface reverberates down your spine, followed by a warm trail of blood.

“Tingly,” Alastair comments. “But some hack witch spell isn’t gonna do the trick, dearie.”

“Maybe this will.”

Alastair turns away from you and toward Castiel, who immediately plunges Ruby’s demon-killing knife into his chest and twists the blade, making Alastair’s knees buckle and his power holding you up against the wall falter.

You hit the floor hard and blink away the spots from the blood loss that cloud your vision. When the room isn’t a complete blur, you search out Castiel and Alastair across the room.

It’s not a pretty sight.

Castiel is losing — his punches don’t land as much or as hard as Alastair’s. The demon hoists Castiel high in the air, and impales him onto a metal rod protruding from the wall. His eyes dart away from Alastair’s and meet with yours, wide and panicked as Alastair grips his throat and mutters in Latin. The light of Castiel’s grace begins to seep out of his mouth and eyes, the rest of his face glowing eerily from the pressure of his grace being expelled.

“No,” you croak, “Castiel!”

Panic rises up through your chest and into your throat — there’s nothing you or even a conscious Dean Winchester could do in this moment to save the angel from a demon like Alastair; he’d just toss you across the room again. You try to stand anyway, while the pain from your head wound throbs furiously at your extended effort.

You’re steadying yourself against the wall, scanning the room for the nearest weapon you can use when you see Sam walk in, his arm outstretched. Alastair shouts as he’s thrown against a wall, and Castiel sags where he’s hanging, grimacing from the pain of the metal in his torso.

Sam has Alastair cornered — thanks to a fresh dose of Ruby’s blood, by the looks of it —, so you stagger over to Castiel to help him down. He glowers at you, clearly not thrilled with your decision to move closer to where Alastair is, Sam’s handling of the demon be damned.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you grunt. “Want my help getting down or not?”

He purses his lips and gives you a curt nod. You tuck yourself under his right arm to support his impaled shoulder, and wrap your arms around his waist.

“On three, I’ve got you,” you say. “One, two, three!” You grip him tight and lift, bearing most of his weight so he can push away from the wall. When he’s free from the hook, his weight slips through your arms and his feet hit the ground. Castiel’s shaking hand latches tight onto your shoulder, and he leans into you.

“‘S’okay, I got you,” you repeat.

Castiel covers the wound with his free hand, directing his grace to heal it. The cool glow hits his jaw and cheekbones, highlighting the tension and discoloring there. Alastair’s blows must have packed more of a supernatural punch than you’d realized.

Before you can say anything about it, Alastair’s screaming draws your attention. You can see his skeleton between flashes of orange light from within his meatsuit.

“Is he… killing him?” you whisper. Castiel raises his head from the wound and gasps at the sight. The arm that’s around your shoulder tenses, and his fingertips dig into your skin.

You know with Sam’s powers that he can exorcise demons, but this? This is so far beyond that. How did he drink that much demon blood?

Alastair’s meatsuit stops flickering and slides to the ground in a heap. Sam turns, his darkened eyes flickering across you and Castiel to where Dean is lying, and he bolts over to his brother.

Your eyes meet Castiel’s and you check softly, “Are you good?”

He nods once, dipping his chin almost imperceptibly. You pull away slowly, hands lingering longer than they should around his torso as he lifts his arm off your shoulder and regains his footing.

“Thank you,” his voice cracks just as you’re turning away to help Dean. You look back with a soft smile, but you hear the fluttering of his wings before you see that he’s gone.

“You’re welcome.”

-

Uriel’s body falls to the ground mere feet away from where Alastair’s had been only a few hours earlier. The light from his grace blinds the eyes of Castiel’s vessel, while his head reels from Uriel’s confession and betrayal: He was the one killing the angels in his garrison.

Uriel, who was by his side for a millennia. Uriel, whose jokes always lifted Castiel’s spirits. Uriel, who fought in the First Angel War by Castiel’s side. No. He betrayed Heaven and deceived Castiel. When Castiel visited you in hiding during the First Angel War, Uriel spied on him, and he sent Esper to terrorize you in your sleep.

The angel had been a double agent for the Extremists in Heaven, working to dismantle the Purists from the inside. He was never kind to humans, but Castiel never imagined that he would go so far that he would side with Lucifer’s cause. After Malachi’s arrest, Uriel was on a slippery slope that lead straight to Hell; he must have slid further down than Castiel realized.

Uriel was so close to Castiel for so long. Castiel scolds himself for not seeing it sooner. Right in front of his face for a millennia was a traitor. How could he be so naive? Castiel doesn’t even care that Uriel betrayed him. He does, but not as much as he cares that Uriel had been close enough to Castiel that he was able to get to you.

You had been in danger because of Castiel’s carelessness twice now. Esper was able to assault you in your dreams because Castiel had let down his guard around his garrison. Uriel almost succeeded in killing you by freeing Alastair from his bonds, and Castiel can’t help but take the blame.

It can’t happen again, Castiel vows. He needs to do something, be something more than what he is to ensure you’re never put in harm’s way like that in the future.

“Castiel?” Anna’s concerned voice breaks through his spiraling thoughts.

He blinks. Anna steps over Uriel’s body and into Castiel’s line of sight.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs, placing a light hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t be. It is done.” He avoids her eyes. “As repayment for saving my life, I won’t follow through on my last promise.”

“But if you see me again,” Anna finishes his unspoken threat, and she’s gone within the millisecond.

Castiel releases a breath that his vessel has been holding since Uriel confessed. He paces over to the body on the ground, smudging the ashy outline of Uriel’s wings.

A sudden tremor nearly knocks Castiel over, forcing him to clutch the nearest wall for support. It echoes in his ears, angelic and human, until another round batters him to the floor. Castiel has never heard a prayer so strong, so full of rage. It’s rare that humans can even direct their prayers to only one angel in particular.

He braces for the next wave, and when it comes, he sifts through the noise and raw emotion to the heart of the prayer.

“ _Castiel, you bastard. If you don’t clean up this fucking mess that you made, that you all made, I swear you’ll never see me again!_ ”

It’s you. Your voice.

He loses track of the words you’re screaming at him, grinning widely at the mere fact that for the first time in almost 100 years, you’re consciously praying to him.

The calls for help that have drawn him to you in the past months were not meant for him alone, but this prayer is. You are calling Castiel, and only Castiel, to you; he can hear your voice in his head, and it’s real. Never mind that you’re angry — Castiel can placate you — all that matters is your prayer.

Through the reverberations, he manages to stand, the corners of his mouth spreading further.

Castiel unfurls his wings, not bothering to mind the structural integrity of the room he’s in. No point in saving Uriel’s vessel from additional scarring. He raises them high then down-strokes, propelling himself into the air.

When he’s not in a hurry, Castiel glides, and if he needs to get somewhere quickly, he thrashes his wings for extra power and speed. But now, Castiel bounds. He shoots himself high into the atmosphere, faces the direction of your prayers, rears the muscles of his wings back, and gives them one powerful beat. That motion combined with the pull of gravity on his streamlined form sends him rocketing toward you.

Flying is a side effect of being an angel. It comes with the territory. It’s not dull by any means, but without emotions, without meaning tied to the destination, flying becomes stale. Not this time. Castiel’s vessel is filled to the brim with adrenaline, his grace burning under the surface. He slices through clouds, adjusting his direction with the slightest movements of his head.

You want him there badly enough to pray Castiel to his knees; far be it from him to keep you waiting.

-

“Castiel!” you bellow with every fiber of your being to the ceiling of your hotel room. “You bastard, if you don’t clean up this fucking mess that you made, that you all made, I swear you’ll never see me again!”

You blink away more tears from streaming down your cheeks. Dean will be okay. Sam is with him now and the doctors — though wary of the story you and Sam concocted — are confident he will make a full recovery. But dammit, that doesn’t make any of this okay.

Before you finish gathering up air for another round of screaming, the soft rustling of feathers tickles your ear.

“You called?”

You whirl to face him, and in the split second before you blink, you see his teeth bared in a wide grin and a strange glint in his eye. But when your eyes take him in again, the grin is a concerned frown, and his brows are furrowed deeply.

“What the hell happened, Castiel?” you hiss.

“You’ll need to be more specific,” he replies dryly.

“Dean has internal bleeding and broken bones because you let Alastair get to him. Is that specific enough for you?”

“Alastair’s escape was—”

“His escape almost cost Dean his life!” you shout. “But what do you care? You got there in time to save me, right? It’s not like Dean’s important to the apocalypse or anything.” You catch his furrowed brows. “Dean told me what you said. How he’s the only one who can end all this. You knew and you deliberately put him in harm’s way.”

Castiel glares daggers at you. “And you think your role in all this is insignificant?”

You scoff, “I should be dead.”

He storms up into your space, grabbing either side of your shoulders. “I would never have let Alastair kill you,” he says earnestly.

“That’s not what I meant,” you shake him off and step back. “My role in all of this should be nonexistent. I’ve been on this earth almost 125 years, Castiel. And I haven’t aged a day. It’s not natural.”

Castiel’s eyes harden at your words. “You think the Winchesters would have been half as successful stopping the Seals without your guidance? You think Sam of his own volition would have resisted the urge to become more of an abomination without your direction? That Dean would have not crumbled to the pressure of his position if you were not here to support him?”

You protest, “That’s not my poin—”

“It’s my point,” he growls. “By my actions or by those of another, fate has you alive here and now. You may have lost faith in me, but have faith in yourself.”

His words catch you off guard. Sure, you’ve helped Dean and Sam out, but he’s making you sound like the glue that’s holding them together. You’d be flattered if you weren’t still angry.

“I have faith that I can make a damn devil’s trap,” you snap, returning to the root of your anger. “How the fuck did he get out?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I’m just as confident in your abilities to do so. However, Alastair’s escape had less to do with the construction of the trap and more to do with the traitor in our midst.”

“What traitor?”

“Uriel was the one killing our brothers and sisters.”

His answer stuns you. “You’re not serious. Uriel? He’s been in your garrison for—”

“I know,” he cuts you off. “He fooled all of us. Even Anna.”

You take a slow half-step toward him. “I’m so sorry, Castiel.”

His gaze is morose, but the corner of his mouth tweaks up in a consolatory smile. “Nothing you need to apologize for. Anna killed him. You’re safe from him now.”

You frown. “What do you mean, I’m safe?”

He says your name softly, avoiding your eyes suddenly. “Uriel has been conspiring against Heaven for some time now. As far back as the First Angel War. He was the one who sent Esper after you to collect intelligence on me.”

Esper. Recollections of the nightmare flash into your mind, and it shakes you that after a century you can still recall every vivid detail.

Castiel’s hand cups your shoulder, his thumb brushing against the fabric slow and measured. The touch pulls you out of your head. “You don’t need to worry.” Castiel repeats, “Esper has been long gone, and Uriel has joined him. You’re safe.”

“One bad guy down, all the rest to go, huh?” It comes out harsh judging by Castiel’s sudden cringe, so you soften your next words. “Thank you for telling me. It’s… good to have this closure.”

Castiel nods in agreement. He drops his hand from your shoulder, letting his hands dangle in the folds of his trenchcoat.

“I’m sorry for blaming you for Dean getting hurt. If Uriel hadn’t tampered with the trap—”

He shakes his head. “Don’t be. It’s forgiven.”

You share a soft smile with him.

“I meant it,” he says after a moment of silence, “when I told you to have faith in yourself. I do. And so do the Winchesters.”

You hum in response. “Yeah. Maybe I need to have a little more faith in you, too.”

Castiel’s whole demeanor relaxes, and he breathes out a nervous laugh. “I’d like that.”

The energy of your entire interaction has shifted. There’s no shield for you to put up; you called him here. Your anger has dissipated, and in the void is gratitude for Castiel’s good news. It’s so rare you get a moment like this with him — without tension, soft and relaxed. He has a handsome quirk in his smile that you haven’t seen. You’re struck again by how identical his eyes are to his former vessel.

“Erm,” you shake yourself out of your train of thought. “It’s getting late, I should—”

You move to the right to clear a path to the door for Castiel just as he steps forward and left to get around you. You nearly knock your face into his chin, and your hands shoot up to stop you from impact, but land on his torso. He’s firm under his trench coat in a way that’s surprising, and your jaw drops open enough for your lips to part when you tilt your chin up to look at him and apologize.

Castiel’s own mouth is open, just enough to see a peek of his tongue between his lips and his eyes are wide with surprise. Your fingers clench, wrapping themselves up in his coat, and before you realize what you’re doing, you lean in and press your lips to his.

Time slows to a crawl. Castiel finally moves, kissing back after the initial shock, and it makes you dizzy. His lips float across yours, barely pressing against them, and his hands fall on your hips. Everything is so light, you clench your fists around his trenchcoat and tug more firmly to ensure that it’s real.

One hand follows your hip around to your lower back, fingers catching on the fabric of your shirt and sending goosebumps up your spine when they rub your skin. You shiver and lean into him further. For more leverage, you release his lapels and drape your wrists over his shoulders, letting your fingers explore his nape and run through his hair.

Each movement deepens the kiss and shallows your breathing, lighting a fire in your belly. Castiel’s teeth catch your lower lip softly and pull before diving back into the kiss, dragging a wanton groan from your throat. Though your limbs feel like putty, you drag your hands back down over his lapels and yank the coat and suit jacket off his shoulders.

Castiel releases you and shrugs off the layers, not once leaving your lips untouched. He tugs at the tie for a frantic second before lining the palm of one hand along your jaw. His other hand dips under your shirt and circles your waist.

“Cas,” you whine against his lips, pressing yourself into him.

He smiles and pulls a hair's breadth away. “Yes?”

You kiss back instead of thinking what to answer. What are you supposed to say? You missed this, you miss him? Castiel moves to your neck, his stubble scratching at your skin.

Can you miss this when it’s so different from before? Castiel’s hands feel different on your skin — not calloused but noticeably rougher than the soft touches she used to give. He’s broad-shouldered now, waist tapered but not slender like hers, and his erection presses against you when he pulls you close.

“Wait, wait,” you gasp, mind racing. “Castiel, I—” His eyes lock with yours as you pull away. You take in his disheveled air, the loosened tie and undone buttons on his dress shirt, and wonder how debauched you look. “I can’t.”

Castiel’s face falls. He mutters your name and wipes a hand over his face. “Why?”

You pull the hem of your shirt back into place and cross your arms. “You know why.”

“No,” he growls, narrowing his eyes. “Why can’t you see that I’m trying?”

“I do,” your voice cracks. “I’m sorry, I just…”

Castiel snorts and half-turns away. “You can’t trust me.”

When you don’t deny it, he sits on the bed and buries his head in his hands. “I know it will take time.” He lifts his head, perching his chin on his folded hands. “But you have to see, En El I. It’s always going to be you. No matter what the danger is, from Earth or Hell… even Heaven, I will always protect you. I love you.”

“I know.” You stare at each other in silence. “Maybe you should go.”

The wind from his wings rustles your hair, and he’s gone.

-

Castiel waits patiently. The park is bustling — joggers fill the trail, children playing while their mothers talk on the sidelines, dogs and their owners dart around on the grass. A young couple occupies a picnic table — a boy reclines on the seat, leaning back on his elbows to gaze at another boy perched on the table.

They laugh and kiss and talk. Castiel watches them for some time.

From beside Castiel, a voice says, “I have to say, I was surprised to hear you were looking for me.”

Castiel refrains from rolling his eyes. “Crowley.”

Crowley glances around and settles his hands into his coat pockets. “Angel of Thursday. What, pray tell, brings us to this lovely park?”

“When we first met, you showed me a photograph of this park.” Castiel pauses. He knows he’s being rash, but after the events of the last week, he needs to do something.

“And you want to know more about the deal I offered,” Crowley finishes. Castiel nods, and the demon grins.

“I’m not too keen on this world being consumed by the apocalypse, let alone allowing Lucifer’s tasteless arse out of the cage. And obviously, angels roaming my deal grounds is less than ideal.” Crowley takes a step forward and pivots toward Castiel. “Judging by how much you fancy this little researcher of ours, I’m betting you don’t want the apocalypse either. Angels can’t live with their pet humans in Heaven, after all.”

“Crowley,” Castiel warns.

“Right, right. Anyhow, I don’t really trust the Dynamic Denim Duo to hold off Lucifer and Michael forever. I suggest we take matters into our own hands.”

“I don’t think an army of one angel and one crossroads demon is going to be much more effective than the Winchesters,” Castiel deadpans.

“Let me ask you, Feathers, what makes Heaven and Hell so powerful? With Capital G out the door and the Devil King locked up until further notice, I hesitate to give them credit where it’s not due.”

Castiel knows the answer, but something about Crowley makes him cautious to show his hand. He feigns ignorance with furrowed brows.

“It’s the souls, Cassie. It’s always been about the souls,” Crowley divulges. “Demons make deals to power Hell with them, and angels do miracles to bring in bright-eyed believers.”

“What you’re suggesting,” scoffs Castiel, “the amount of souls it would take to stand ground against Heaven and Hell combined is—”

“I’d wager Purgatory has more than enough marred souls ripe for the taking,” Crowley interrupts. “Every vampire, werewolf, and not-as-dead-as-you-thought beastie killed over the last millennia tucked away into their own little hell away from Hell. Thirty, maybe even forty million?”

The angel flicks his gaze from the park to Crowley, who waits patiently for a response. This is it. The solution he’s been looking for. Castiel wants to grin, feels something bubbling up inside from his chest to his throat, but he forces the giddiness back down.

“What exactly is your deal, Crowley?”

He grins. “Let’s go halvsies. You get enough ammo to stop Lilith and keep Michael and Raphael in check, and I’ll keep the lock on Lucy’s cage tight. No apocalypses. No betrayals. Just me on the throne down below running Hell like a fine-tuned machine.”

Castiel carefully considers the proposal. “And how are you expecting to find Purgatory? No angel or demon is even sure of its existence.”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“No,” Castiel thunders. Some passerby look up to the clear sky, checking for storm clouds. He lowers his voice. "She is not to know"

"Cassie, keeping secrets from your lover?"

"Crowley," Castiel growls.

"Far be it from me to give you relationship advice — it's been a century or two since I was human. But she has done extensive research on the matter.”

“Not. A. Hair.”

Crowley chews on the inside of his lip, examining Castiel. “Fine. But this idea relies on having an in-house Purgatory cognoscente.”

“I’ll get the necessary information. But you’re not to involve her without my knowledge.” Castiel glowers at the demon. “Understood?”

“Nary a hair on her precious head,” Crowley vows.

Castiel nods tentatively. “Then we have a deal.”


	9. Chapter 9

_February 2009_

“You sure you want to come along, Smalls?”

“Sam, I’m fine. Let’s just figure out what’s up with this shady warehouse rendezvous.”

Dean parks the Impala, and the three of you pile out with flashlights at the ready. The night is dark — it’s 3:00 a.m. after all — but you’re wide awake. You slept through most of the day thanks to an all nighter ghoul hunt the night before, and every trace of grogginess dissipated when Dean woke you and Sam to tell you about Castiel’s dream message.

“Looks like a bomb went off in here,” Sam mutters. You nod, eyes adjusting to the darkness until you can make out the piles of concrete and loose wires drooping from the ceiling.

“Something like that. Look.” You nudge him and shine your light on a sigil on the wall. It’s an incomplete hiding sigil. “Castiel was trying to hide himself from angels.”

“Guys! Over here,” Dean shouts.

Sam swings his flashlight around to Dean’s voice, and you follow. He’s climbing over a pile of rubble, his own light shining on a lump of khaki on top. You clamber out of the debris you were searching and over to Dean’s side.

“Cas!” Dean’s voice echoes off the walls as he kneels to check for wounds and a pulse, hands tugging at the fabric around Castiel’s neck and jostling his shoulder. You pan your light around his shoulders to check for an imprint of his wings, holding your breath even after you don’t find any marks.

No wing marks means Castiel is still alive. You know this, but your heart pounds anyway.

Suddenly Castiel bolts up, gasping frantically, and the relief knocks the air you’ve been holding out of your lungs. “Where—what happened? Wh-where am I?”

“Take it easy, Cas,” Dean starts.

“Wha- no,” he responds and shakes off Dean’s hand so he can stand.

Something’s wrong. You scan Castiel for signs of a shifter or a demon, then shake your head. A demon would be dead after going a few rounds with angels, and the idea of a shifter getting caught in the crosshairs and surviving is laughable. So what is he?

“Castiel?” He shakes his head. “I’m not Castiel. It’s me.”

“Who’s ‘me’?” Sam asks.

He looks around at your blank faces, and says, “Jimmy. My name’s Jimmy.”

Sam and Dean glance between each other, sharing in their confusion.

“Guys,” you mutter. “His vessel. Jimmy is—was Castiel’s vessel.”

“Was?” Dean asks. “Cas is...?”

You shake your head. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. The easiest way to kill an angel is by killing one while they inhabit a vessel. Why remove him first, then kill him?”

“Inhabit? Wait, what day is it?” Jimmy asks. “H-how long did he— was I a vessel?”

“It’s... uh,” Sam pulls out his phone to check the date, “Sunday, February 8rd.”

“February?” Jimmy wheezes. He pushes past Dean, knocking into your shoulder, before nearly tumbling to the ground to avoid Sam. “Oh, God. Claire. Amelia. I have to—”

His legs collapse beneath him, and he slumps forward, almost hitting the ground before Sam catches him.

“He’s out,” Sam sighs after checking his pulse. “Guys, what are we supposed to do?”

Dean scoffs. “What do you mean? ‘Claire, Amelia,’ the guy’s got a family. We need to get him home.”

“I don’t know about that, Dean,” you whisper. He looks at you incredulously. “Dean, we’re in the middle of a war between Heaven and Hell. A live, discarded angel vessel is like a jackpot for demons.”

Sam’s frown sets in and he looks to Dean. “She’s got a point, man.”

“Wow.” Dean wipes a hand over his face, holding onto his jaw an extra second like it would fall to the ground if he didn’t. “So what are we supposed to do? Kidnap him?”

“Not if we explain what’s going on,” Sam retorts.

Dean isn’t thrilled with this argument, but you all agree that it’s best for Jimmy to wake up in a hotel room with food and a bed instead of a warehouse on the brink of collapse. Sam and Dean carry Jimmy out to the Impala, and lay him down in the backseat, his head on your lap. You rest a hand on his head, your fingers just settling into hair before you yank them away and instead drape your arm on the back of the seat.

You search for any reaction of Castiel’s in his face, but Jimmy sleeps soundly.

While you wait for Jimmy to wake, Sam and Dean discuss what to tell him about the war, and debate between taking him home or convincing him to stay away. Mostly, you try to think of a way to find out what happened to Castiel.

In the end, you offer to make the drive back to your house to check for books or lore around memory spells. It’s a few hours away, but you need a break from staring at Jimmy’s face. Even so, you take one last glance before you leave.

It’s eerie how his face feels so familiar, but now you don’t recognize it at all. It’s like Castiel had access to muscles and expressions that Jimmy hadn’t yet figured out how to use. You can argue that Castiel is an angel, and one human’s capabilities couldn’t possibly rival an angel’s, but you don’t know if that’s it.

Castiel and Jimmy are fundamentally different. Castiel has lived for a millennia, fought in wars, and been to Hell and back. He’s intense, a warrior, a survivor; the likes of which Jimmy wouldn’t be able to comprehend.

You let the thought sit with you for a moment. Castiel will be okay. No matter where he is, he will survive.

But where is he? Heaven seems to be the only answer that makes sense. Hell would rather kill an angel than kidnap one outside his vessel — if that’s even possible. Angels don’t need their vessels in Heaven; you had always assumed they hold onto them to avoid losing a willing host while they have one. You’d need to reference your notes that Castiel gave you on the angelic presence to see if there was another reason Heaven would remove an angel from the vessel.

You hope it’s not a punishment.

It’s not a reasonable wish. Castiel already told you once he had been reprimanded for siding with you and the Winchesters over Heaven. Maybe they’re getting on to him for another issue, like not stopping the breaking Seals fast enough?

“Just. Please be okay,” you pray softly. You turn up the radio to drown out your anxious thoughts for the rest of the drive.

The lock sticks, but soon you’re in your old home, sneezing at the dust stirred by the breeze you let in. Maybe you should be coming back more regularly to clean.

You take a moment to run through your mental catalogue of notes and books on spells. Most of your books that mention angels specifically relate to the apocalypse, and are at Bobby’s where you’d been poring over them for clues about the Seals. You’re hoping a simple memory retrieval spell from the library next to your study will do the job.

The floor creaks on your way there, and you curse your absence again when the dust in the library brings on another sneezing fit. At least it hasn’t been long enough for you to forget the cataloguing system that’s kept your books organized for the last hundred years.

You scan a few spines to regain your bearings, quickly finding a few that are categorized as magic, subcategory location spells, then love spells and their reversals, before your fingers trace over the faded print of the word “memory.” After plopping yourself on the ground for a better vantage point, you yank a couple off the shelf, scanning the table of contents you’ve added to each book for words like “subconscious” and “possession.”

Not satisfied, you reach back up for the next two books. When you pull them off the shelf, a dull thud draws your eyes back up to see which books have fallen over.

Huh. A book lying flat on the shelf is clearly the source of the noise, but its spine is not facing you. It must have been tucked along the back wall of the bookshelf and fallen without the support of the two books you pulled.

The leather is in good condition, though the corners of the pages are worn. No title lines the spine, and when you turn back the cover to read the first page, you remember why this book was hidden away.

It’s your journal of your time with Castiel.

You hardly recognize your handwriting from then. Did you really used to make that many unnecessary loops? The longer you stare, the more words begin to jump off the page: like a dream, so happy with her, I love Castiel—

Before you can process anymore, you slam the journal shut. Too much is going on right now for you to get caught up in this.

Finding a book with a good enough spell takes longer than you’d care to admit. At some point, you check the time, and it’s almost four in the morning. You opt for sleep, hoping for better results with the spells in the morning and safer driving back to the boys.

It’s late the next morning when you wake, and hours later when you find a spell that works. The original intent of the spell is a reversal for amnesia, to “reveal memories unknown,” but you’re certain it will do the trick, so you write it down alongside the few ingredients listed.

You glance up at the mostly empty shelf of books regarding angels and decide to quickly search the contents. In a worn volume, you find your notes on angelkind based on past conversations with Castiel, and flip to the series of entries on vessels. You suspect the shock of Castiel being forcibly removed from Jimmy has triggered his lapse in memory, but one note in the book confirms an alternative: angels can intentionally suppress the consciousness of their vessels.

The thought doesn’t sit well with you.

You place the volume back in its spot and shelve the rest of the books, pausing once you get to the journal. You sigh, stack it under the spellbook in your arms, and hurry out to your truck, locking up as you go.

There’s no point hiding from your past anymore.

You pull out your phone to update the boys and see a voicemail that Sam left this morning while you were sleeping.

“Hey Smalls. Cas—er, Jimmy ran out on us sometime last night. We found his home address and it’s not too far, so we’re going after him now. I’ll send the address, but call us when you head out and we’ll meet up.”

The message barely finishes before you’re calling Sam back. He picks up on the second ring.

“Sam, what the hell—”

“We got him back,” Sam huffs, sounding more winded than irritated. “Got his wife and kid, too. Demons ambushed him at home, but we’re out now.”

“Holy shit,” you say, stunned. “Is everyone okay? How did the demons—”

“They were staking out at the neighbors. I couldn’t— we couldn’t save them.”

Oh. Sam couldn’t use his powers then. You wondered how long it had been since he last saw Ruby, and what kind of stash he’d had in the meantime. You hear the roar of Baby in the background of Sam’s call, so you’re certain he’s trying to avoid bringing it up in front of Dean.

“Well, what’s the game plan then? I found a spell that might help us figure out what happened to Castiel. But we can’t take in a whole family; the kid doesn’t need to be around all this apocalypse crap.”

“Yeah, we know,” he sighs. Dean comments in the background and Sam repeats it shortly after. “There’s a town southwest of Pontiac called Jacksonville; we should both be able to get there by nightfall and we can figure out what’s next.”

“Okay.” The line clicks, leaving you alone with your anxiety. “God dammit.”

The time on the drive back passes by quickly — definitely not because you’re gunning it at 90 miles per hour whenever you can. Baby is sitting outside the broken down barn south of Jacksonville that the boys gave you directions to, and they’re standing next to her deep in a discussion with Jimmy. The conversation dies as they watch you pull up.

You hop out of the truck with your spell book in hand and circle back toward the truck bed. Sam and Dean break away from Jimmy who wanders back over to Baby. You can see the head of a woman and child in the backseat.

“How did that go?” you ask, folding down the tailgate.

“Fine,” Sam grunts while Dean says, “Coulda been better.”

You raise a brow at their tenseness. Sam looks aggravated, and Dean spent. You make a mental note to pull Sam aside later and figure out what’s going on with his power. Maybe he’ll open up to you more when Dean isn’t there to… well, protect him. Because all Dean really wants is to keep his brother safe, but you know too well how overbearing and frustrating that feels on the receiving end. You amend your mental note to speak with Dean as well.

“I found this spell, and I think it’s our best shot for figuring out what Jimmy doesn’t know.” You offer the notes to Sam, and climb onto the truck bed so you can search through your hunter toolbox for the ingredients listed. “Shouldn’t be too complicated, we can knock it out right here.”

“What about the dude’s family? Claire, his kid, needs to get someplace safe.” Dean says. You look up from the toolbox to watch Jimmy speak with Amelia. There are tears in her eyes that Jimmy gently wipes away. They clasp both hands in her lap, and you can see Jimmy’s hands smoothing over her skin to comfort her. You finish rummaging through the tool box and jump down from the truck to set the ingredients on the tailgate.

“We’ll send them somewhere safe once we know where safe is,” you retort. “The priority right now is finding out what Castiel wanted to tell you and what happened to him to prevent that. If this spell works, we’ll be able to make the best decision for Jimmy’s family.”

“Best for them? Or what’s best for stopping the apocalypse?”

“Dean,” you sigh and cross your arms, “if we don’t stop the apocalypse, then it’s not going to be good for anyone.”

He sniffs and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I know that. It just feels like we’re not even saving people when we’re splitting up a family like this.”

You take another peek at Jimmy with his family, and idly swipe your thumb over the skin on your forearm, lost in thought. You agree with Dean, but you’re also in the middle of a war.

When you and Sam don’t reply, Dean shrugs angrily. “Whatever. Let’s get this show on the road.”

He walks over to Jimmy to give him an update while Sam starts working on the ingredients. Jimmy leans in to give Amelia a kiss, and her hand rests on his jawline even after he pulls away to follow Dean.

You can’t blame her, you wanted to do the same when Castiel kissed y— wait a second. You blink and shake your head. Just because you kissed Castiel when he was in Jimmy doesn’t mean you should be watching Jimmy with his wife, or even thinking about Castiel while doing so. It’s so many layers of wrong, that you turn your back to Baby and try to focus on the ingredients Sam is mixing instead.

“So, what do I need to do?” asks Jimmy from behind you.

“I think it’s ready,” says Sam, coming to your rescue after your mental cry for help.

The green liquid in the bowl isn’t exactly smooth, and you can see the burnt orange color from the dried leaves of one ingredient sticking out, but it looks right. You nod, but Jimmy looks at you blankly.

“Just, uh. Drink this, and we’ll recite this incantation. It should bring back some memories of when Castiel was... here.” You pick up the paper, and as Jimmy begins to drink, you chant, “ _Memorias quae sunt incognita revelare. Memorias quae sunt incognita revelare. Memorias quae sunt incognita revelare_.”

Jimmy sets down the bowl, coughing a little from the taste and texture.

“Well?” Dean asks. “Anything?”

“Give it a second,” you reply, watching Jimmy’s eyes for any flicker of Castiel’s memories.

“I think I’m tired of waiting.”

You and the boys turn to see Amelia standing a few yards away with a gun to Claire’s head and a hand over her mouth. Dean and Sam throw their hands up defensively, and you take a subtle step forward, one hand outstretched.

“Amelia, what the hell!” Jimmy shouts.

“Not Amelia,” her eyes flash black. “Not anymore.”

Your gut clenches. In all your experience with demons, the patient ones have always been the most dangerous, and none of you knew how long Amelia had been possessed.

“Hey!” Dean shouts to get the demon’s attention. “Listen, let the kid go, she’s got nothing to do with this.”

Demon Amelia grins. “She’s got everything to do with it. She’s the reason you’re all going to do exactly as I say.”

Sam grunts, and you glance behind you where he’s being restrained by another demon, with three others moving toward you, Dean, and Jimmy. Shit, this is so bad. You and Dean grimace and allow the demons to seize your arms. Jimmy is the only one who’s struggling, trying to get to his daughter.

“I thought I might as well wait around to see if your grand plan with the vessel worked,” drawls the demon. “But I don’t think he knows anything.”

Jimmy nods, emphatically agreeing. “You’re right. I don’t know anything, so please just let me and my family go!”

She examines him for a second. “Nah.”

A gunshot echoes in the night air and Jimmy immediately topples to the ground from his captor’s grasp. You don’t have time to react, because Claire immediately shoves the demon holding her off balance, disarms her, and throws her several yards back. When she turns to face you, her eyes glow a brilliant blue.

The demon who dropped Jimmy, unconcerned as he bleeds on the grass beneath him, runs at Claire, so you find an opening to revolt against the demon holding you. You throw your head back into his nose, loosening his grip on you and giving you the chance to swing him into the rear bumper of your truck.

A soft touch stops you from landing a blow to the demon’s head. Claire’s small body strides past you, and lays her hand on the demon, effectively ganking it.

She glances at you briefly, and you’re certain you see Castiel in those blue eyes. You nod in thanks as she heads over to handle the demon Dean is wrangling. You wheel around to help Sam with his, and freeze when you see him kneeling over the body, his head tucked into the crook of her neck.

Blood trails from the intersection and stains the ground beneath. He jerks back and stabs her with his demon-killing knife. The orange light flashes hauntingly across his bloodied mouth as he stands to face all three of you staring at him in horror.

His eyes lock on you, he reaches out an arm, and you jump when you hear a choke from behind you. Amelia bends over, black smoke pouring out of her mouth and marring the ground beneath her feet as the demon is sent back to Hell.

In the beat after Amelia is free from the demon, Dean is by her side helping her up. Out of the corner of your eye, Jimmy is bleeding out on the ground. Claire— no, Castiel is crouching near him. You move closer, and when you get near enough, Jimmy’s voice carries enough for you to make out what he’s saying.

“Please, Castiel. Just t-take me, please. Not her, n-not C-Claire.”

Castiel hesitates. “Are you su—”

“D-doesn’t ma-atter, just take me!” Jimmy chokes out. His wound is bleeding extensively — he could die any minute now.

Castiel reaches out with Claire’s small hands and places them on either side of Jimmy’s face. Bright light, gold-white and blinding, fills his face, streaming from his eyes and mouth. When it fades, Claire slumps next to the angel in her father’s body. Amelia is by her daughter’s side in an instant, ushering her away with only a quick glance back to her husband.

You walk up to him and, seeing Castiel’s presence behind Jimmy’s bright blue eyes, you fall to your knees by his side. Hands graze over the bullet hole in his shirt, tugging the fabric up until you see smooth skin, only stained with blood. They dart up to his face, one hand cupping his cheek and the other brushing hair from his eyes. They’re wide, in shock it seems.

“Cas! Are you alright?” He registers that you’re there in front of him, but his eyes are dazed as he stares right past you. He nods slightly, and you quickly press your lips against his forehead in relief.

It takes a minute, but he notices your hands, still gently holding his face. He subtly leans into your touch, toward the hand on his cheek, and looks up at you through his lashes. Your heart jumps involuntarily.

You know this is the part where you should pull away. Where you close up the crack in your wall that he’s managed to worm his way back through. But right now, you can’t move. Not when he’s staring at you like this.

Castiel lifts his hand to the one you have resting against his face and his fingers intertwine with yours. His head turns, only slightly, but just enough for him to press his lips against the crease where your palm meets your wrist.

“Thank you,” he murmurs finally, gently pulling your hand away. “For looking after Jim—”

He freezes then, and his brows wrinkle together, confused and searching.

“Cas?”

“It’s Jimmy, he’s—” Castiel pauses. “He’s gone.” He grunts, and you inch back some so he can sit up. “He must have died before I was able to…”

Before Castiel could heal him. You stand and help Castiel to his feet, trying to swallow the weight of his unfinished thought.

Dean stares at you and Castiel, his eyes flickering between the two of you. Castiel walks away from you with a soft, “I must go,” striding right past Dean.

“Woah there, Flyboy.” Dean reaches out to stop him. “What the hell was all this about? Why’d you lose your vessel?”

“It doesn’t concern you, Dean.”

“Cas,” you call out, “we’re worried about you.”

He pauses and glances back to you with morose eyes. “I’m sorry.” And he’s gone.

_February 2009_

Sam is shouting from behind the metal door again. He’d stopped about an hour after the initial shock, but it's been about a day now, so you think it’s the detox this time. You’re still furious that Bobby and Dean pulled this shit without talking to you.

Apparently Dean had told Bobby what Sam did to that demon, and they set up a legitimate cage for him. You arrived at Bobby’s just after they shut the door.

“How long is this gonna last?” you had shouted through tears and shock.

“As long as it takes,” Dean had replied without looking you in the eyes.

You get it, you really do. Sam drinking demon blood had been a necessary evil when he first told you about it. You didn’t like it, but you knew he had good intentions. Seeing him drink it like a vamp, however. That was different.

Rabid.

Listening to Sam screaming is killing you. Being locked up is a horrifying experience, especially when someone you love has the key.

Finally, you decide you can’t take it anymore. You tell Dean you’re going for a drive, and your truck stirs up the dirt and gravel dust as you peel away from Bobby’s, Dean, and his locked up brother. You drive until you’re in the middle of nowhere, then you pull off the road and drive some more. Finally, stranded in an open field, you ease your truck to a stop.

When you climb out of the cab, you want to scream. You want to cry and yell and slam your fists until they bleed. Instead, you fall.

You land on your knees and you stare at the sky for hours, or at least it feels like it. You get lost in the stars, and you forget about Sam drinking demon blood, about Dean and Bobby locking him up without a backup plan for the apocalypse. You forget about the apocalypse and Lilith and demons and angels. You forget about them all.

The cold from the ground seeps into your knees, and the tingling of numbness in your thighs is what pulls you back. You drag your feet under you, shuffling back over to the cab of your truck. Your eyes catch on something sitting in the passenger seat, and you remember the journal you found at home. It hasn’t left your truck since you found it, forgotten in the flurry of events with Castiel’s return and Sam’s descent into bloodlust.

Now is as good a time as any, you think. You snatch the journal and a flashlight from the glovebox and head around to the back of the truck. The tailgate feels like ice, so you tuck your knees to your chest for warmth before you dive in.

This time, the loopy handwriting brings a small smile to your face. Your heart thumps at the flourishes you added to Castiel’s name when you first wrote it.

Everything used to be so simple. You remember details that had been long shoved into the recesses of your mind. The way Castiel would play with your hair, fascinated by how the simple act could send you to sleep within minutes. When she would smile at your incorrect Enochian pronunciations and gently correct you. You reach a passage that makes you blush at the details even now. The first time you had sex with Castiel after saying you loved her. You clear your throat and flip to the next entry.

You reach the last few months, and they’re starkly different from the rest. These entries are barely a page, lacking the emotion and colorful phrasing you’d woven throughout the others. This was after she started locking you in, when you realized her behavior was growing more toxic and you knew you needed to get out.

Of course, you didn’t record those thoughts in these entries, for fear that Castiel would read them and punish you. These entries were a cover for your escape plans; your attempt at convincing her that you were still happy.

You shut the journal, fingers gently stroking the cover. So much has changed in almost one hundred years. Including Castiel. The last few months have been nothing like what your life was before. Castiel, for all her mistakes in the past, hasn’t reverted to that behavior, no matter how many times you’ve rebuffed him.

Maybe it’s time you changed, too, and gave him a real second chance.

His name flits through your brain in a soft prayer, and your nerves hike up. What if he doesn’t come? What if he does, and he hates you? What if he goes back to the way she was before?

You shake your head and shift around so your legs swing off the tailgate, kicking back and forth like you’re punting the anxiety out into the field, far away from you. You clear your throat, and try again.

“Castiel.”

The wind howls, carrying the echo of your prayer across the night. Castiel doesn’t keep you waiting long; you feel him the second he arrives, off to your left in between blinks.

You tilt your chin, calling him over until he’s standing in front of you. You set the journal behind you, and look up at him.

“Hi.”

“Hello,” he responds softly and you smile at his caution. Even this is new — waiting for your invitation, the lack of an underlying motive in his tenderness, the space sitting between you. The shroud of who she used to be has finally lifted for you to see Castiel as he is, and you’d like to get to know him all over again.

“How are you feeling after…” He doesn’t know how to finish the question. After you watched Sam get a fresh dose of demon blood? After watching Dean lock his brother away? After thinking Castiel was dead, then watching him walk away without knowing what really happened?

“After what happened last night?” you summarize for him. “Not great. Bobby and Dean have locked up Sammy to detox him.”

Castiel purses his lips, sigh deeply. “That’s likely for the best,” he offers in consolation.

You nod, then shake your head. “Isn’t there another way? Some purification spell we could use? Let him get clean of his own free will?” You search Castiel’s eyes, mind racing with ideas. “Will you help me break him out of there? I can distract Bobby and Dean, and you can open the door, get him somewhere safe until I catch up.”

A sad smile pulls a corner of his mouth up. “Is that what Sam would want?”

No, that’s not what Sam wants. He would do whatever he can to find Ruby, just to prove Dean wrong. You sigh. “No. I just hate that he’s locked up. He thinks he’s doing what’s right, and it’s just not.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says.

Castiel hasn’t exactly been fond of Sam — you’ve been told by the brothers how callous he could be when speaking to the younger Winchester, and you’ve picked up on the hostility yourself. His sincerity now would have caught you off guard if you hadn’t already accepted that he’d changed.

“You know, you keep risking your life to help us do the right thing over and over again.”

Castiel’s eyes snap to yours. They are wide and hopeful and in shock. You hold out your hand, palm up, waiting as his eyes flit down then back to your eyes before he slowly reaches out; his fingers are warm in the cold air, so you hold them gently in yours, letting him step into the space where your knees dangle off the edge of the truck.

He’s still bewildered, and the combination of his proximity and the warmth of his hand floods your cheeks with heat. It’s overwhelming; you look down at his hand in yours to ground yourself and continue, “I know our history is messy. And even after you apologized, I couldn’t get past it, so I kept punishing you and shutting you out. I was scared. And I had a right to be.” You glance up at him. “But you’ve changed.”

The hope shining in his eyes catches your breath in your throat. This is big for both of you, terrifying and new, but you want to do it right, so you exhale shakily. “I forgive you, Castiel.”

Castiel’s face breaks out into pure joy, his smile big and genuine, and you might have seen a tear sneak out from the crinkles in the corner of his eye, but he swoops into your space, sighing your name, and he hugs you, firm and warm. You soak up the embrace, arms reaching across his back to return the favor. He pulls you closer and buries his face against your hair, lips grazing over your ear.

After a moment, he finally softens and ever-so-slowly pulls back to look you in the eyes. He looks so light. Even aside from his beaming face, you can see the exhaustion from the war and all the fighting evaporate. You reach up, tracing his hairline from his temple to below his earlobe with your thumb, and stroke his jaw gently. Staring at his lips, then his dilating pupils warms you.

God, he’s handsome.

Castiel waits as your gentle touch explores his face. With each brush of the pad of your thumb over his skin, your patience weakens until you think, “fuck it,” and you wrap a hand around the base of his head to pull him closer to kiss you.

The kiss is different than the one in the hotel room. You’re not dizzy this time; this kiss grounds and warms you, igniting your cells like a wildfire. He’s being incredibly gentle, one hand even cupping your jaw, but you want to really feel him. You give his hair a firm grasp and tug as you deepen your kisses.

Castiel whispers your name against your lips and pulls away, eyes seeking out yours as he asks, “Are you sure about this?”

New, but affirming. You gently move his hand away from your face, clasp both of his in yours firmly, and say with conviction, “I really am.”

His thumbs stroke your wrists, and his eyes still shine with relief. “I think... it would be wise for us to take our time.”

Your face must show your confusion, because he jumps to explain, “Not that I’m— I mean, don’t misunderstand.” He sighs, nose crunching as he searches for the right words. “I am overjoyed that we get to have a second chance together. But with the apocalypse, and what’s happening with Sam — it’s a lot.”

“Yeah, but isn’t the apocalypse even more reason for us to make up for lost time?” You try to play like you’re half-joking, but the neediness ekes out anyway.

Castiel’s hands slip out of your hold and cup your face once more. His eyes are heavy again with the fatigue of war. “I promised you once that no harm would come to you, whether it be Earth, Heaven, or Hell. I don’t intend to break that promise so soon.”

“Okay, Cas,” you whisper with a small smile.

He presses his lips to your forehead, and your heart leaps in response while you wrap your arms around him. Castiel strokes your hair and asks if you want a ride home.

You think about Sam screaming in his rehab prison, Bobby sleeping through it thanks to the booze, and Dean spending another night researching at Bobby’s desk, only nodding off when Sam passes out from exhaustion.

“No. But I know where you can take me instead.”  
  
 _March 2009_

Castiel is happy again. He never, not for a second, doubted that you would be reunited. But this? It’s heaven.

He returns your morning greeting from the kitchen and concentrates on not burning the eggs again. When breakfast is complete, he plates it and serves it up on your dining room table where you’re already seated with open books scattered on the surface.

You place your lips to his in thanks, letting your fingers drift over his jaw, and he closes his eyes. There it is: his vessel’s heartbeat stops and then beats furiously to make up for the stutter.

“I have news of another Seal that Heaven needs assistance with,” he says after pulling back.

“That’s the third one in two weeks,” you sigh. “I’ll call Dean, see if he’s up for it.” He is, and within the hour you’re packed and Castiel has dropped you off at Bobby’s.

The change in you over the last month has been phenomenal in Castiel’s eyes. You’ve moved back to your now-unwarded home in Missouri and settled into a semi-consistent routine when Castiel isn’t away on a mission: he wakes you with a kiss, makes breakfast, helps with research, passes along Seals for you to help Dean with, and stays the night when he can. You light up and smile bigger than he’s ever seen when you realize he’s home, and you cling tight every time he has to leave, as though a strong enough embrace would keep him there forever.

You’re his again. He knew it as soon as he pulled away from you that night under the stars in the field, and your eyes were pleading with him before he even expressed hesitation. But he wanted to be sure, and he wanted it to be right. So he made you wait until you couldn’t any longer.

Not even a week after that first night when you brought him to your home, you were relaxing together on the couch after dinner. His arms were wrapped around you (Castiel’s hands can still feel the heavy thuds of your beating heart), and you twisted in your seat to kiss him.

You let your hands roam during the kiss, releasing him only to catch your breath and dive back in deeper. He’d been restraining himself for so long, and you were so enthusiastic; he let you tug his tie loose and pull his shirt open, even reach toward his belt, before pulling back with a gasp of your name, his fingers deftly curling around your wrist to keep your hand at bay.

“Cas,” you whispered. “I’m ready. Please.” You pulled your hand free with little effort and peeled your shirt over your head to prove your point.

He felt like a parched man in a desert finally seeing water. You blushed so beautifully, but didn’t shy away from his gaze as it swept over you. He was enraptured, eyes detailing every scar and mark as they swept over the rolls of your skin and the swell of your breasts.

“You are more beautiful than I remembered,” he said. Your response was lost in a shriek as he lifted you up smoothly, laughing together while he carried you to the bed room. He grew prideful as you melted under his touch, your body writhing on the bed as his lips peppered you with kisses. You still gasped when he sucked your nipple between his teeth, and when he bit your inner thigh while teasing your clit, you groaned until you lost your breath.

And when you came? Over and over again? Your soul blazed and Castiel swore it was like watching a galaxy birth a star under his Father’s guidance. He could almost pretend like nothing had changed between the two of you.

Except, of course, for one detail. Castiel didn’t care much for whatever the differences were in his former vessel and the one he possessed now, but the feeling of being inside you was utterly divine. An incredible experience that you thankfully initiated night after night.

Castiel smiles at the memory, and after watching you ride off with Dean to chase the next Seal, he returns to your home.

With little progress on finding Purgatory, Crowley has grown irritable, especially with Castiel “playing house,” as he calls it. Castiel refuses to seek your guidance, not out of pride, but fear. Fear that you, with your sharp mind and deep knowledge of the apocalypse, will discover his plan. He’s keeping you, and your rekindled relationship, safe this way.

Your research on Purgatory is vast, and largely theoretical, but he knows there must be some lore on the entrance or who has access to it. He groans and shuts another book, then drags your research log over to find the next one. There are dozens of sources listed, so despite searching as often as possible over the last month, Castiel still hasn’t made a noticeable dent in the pile of books. Some books you have on hand in your library, and others (usually with shorter, more inconsequential passages) he has to find in libraries.

This next book offers something promising though. It’s an old tome about lost, ancient texts; scrolls and books full of information passed down by word of mouth long after the burning of books by the Qin dynasty, the destruction of the Library of Alexandria, and even the Trial of the Talmud. Castiel finds a chapter that covers rumors and folklore about books that were rarely seen even when they were believed to be real, books that are so rare that only one version exists. There are passages on books of magic like the Book of the Damned and the Black Grimoire. In a passage mentioning Binsfeld's Classification of Demons and the Key of Solomon is an unnamed text that catches Castiel’s eye.

The chapter shares an old tale where a woman who narrowly escaped the clutches of a dragon showed the townsfolk an unusual journal as proof of her escape. The locals mocked and shamed her, but a local scholar took pity on her and translated a portion of the book, discovering the mention of a place called the “In-Between,” home to the Mother of All. The book and the woman disappeared not long after.

Castiel sighs in relief. This has to be it. He’d be more excited about the lead if not for the concern of how long it took to find. He grimaces, and records the details of the book to pass along to Crowley, then carefully returns each of your books and materials to where he found them.

He ponders, not for the first time, how Crowley knew you would be the quickest route to finding Purgatory, how it could have been mere coincidence that he approached Castiel.

Then again, Castiel thought, perhaps it was fate. He tucks his notes into his jacket pocket and flies out to meet with the demon at his current Mediterranean home. He's due for a check-in, so Crowley won't be surprised to see him. 

As he walks through the entryway, Crowley's voice echoes through the hall, goading and loud, “Why, Cassie; you’re positively glowing. And I don’t think it’s the angelic kind."

Castiel smiles proudly and holds out the paper with his carefully printed notes. “I have a lead on Purgatory.”

“You sure that’s all you have a lead on?” Crowley presses on with a twinkle in his eye.

“I’m certain that any other leads are none of your concern,” Castiel replies coolly.

Crowley huffs and takes the paper from Castiel’s hand. He tears his searching gaze away from the angel to the contents of the paper. “You call this a lead?”

Castiel frowns, only mildly surprised by the level of disdain in the demon’s voice — even when Crowley is pleased, he’s condescending.

“Yes,” Castiel replies. “You wanted information on Purgatory, and this was in her research.”

“It’s a story,” Crowley sighs, exasperated. “It doesn’t even mention the place by name!”

Castiel’s patience is wearing thin. “Many humans could say the same for you and me.”

There’s a beat of silence where Crowley narrows his eyes at the angel. He snaps his fingers and a lanky, startled demon appears at his side, but quickly recovers.

“Andrews, are you ready for that promotion?” he bellows.

“Y-yes, sir!” Andrews straightens up to receive orders.

Crowley holds out the paper to the lackey, pinched between his index and middle fingers. “Find me this book.” Andrews’ shoulders drop subtly, but he snatches the paper from Crowley’s hand and disappears.

“I just can’t wait to be king,” he mutters under his breath.

Castiel ignores the comment. “How long will he take?” he inquires.

The glare Crowley sends him is scathing, much like his tone. “Don’t rush me, angel, especially after how much time you wasted manually hunting down that pathetic hint of lead. I’ll be in touch when there’s news.”

That’s not enough to satisfy Castiel. “At least I gave you an estimation of how much time it would take me to scour her research. We’re on a timeline against the apocalypse, and the only thing standing in the way is Sam Winchester’s relapse.”

Crowley saunters across the suite to the armchair and settles in. “So long as the detox is moving along swimmingly, what’s the issue?”

Castiel presses on urgently. “It’s only a matter of time before the other angels notice Dean is hunting and taking out Seals without his brother. And Sam’s blood supplier could easily rope him back in once he’s free.”

“Who’s the supplier?” Crowley squints thoughtfully.

“A demon named Ruby.” Surely, Crowley, with his connections and tendencies for self-preservation, would see the danger in risking a reunion between Ruby and Sam.

The name gives Crowley pause, and he hums in response. “Well, now. I’m sure she won’t be missed if one of my supporters were to, ah, take care of her.”

Relieved, Castiel nods. The tides of the war are slowly shifting in his favor. He only needs to ensure they stay that way.


	10. Chapter 10

_April 2009_

Dean rolls Baby through the abandoned streets of Carthage, Missouri, giving you time to scan the storefronts and alleys for, well, anyone. After the news of the last view days (missiles launched overseas, a sweeping drought in South America, and a strains of a new plague identified in Canada), Bobby discovered the next Seal was one of the last: the Raising of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. He sent Dean out early in the afternoon to pick you up, the streetlamps in Carthage already piercing through the darkness by the time you arrive.

“I’m seeing nothing, Dean.” Even a diner with its brightly lit ‘Open’ sign was empty.

“Me either.” He pulls Baby over to the curb to park, more out of habit than a need to get out of the street. “Did you and Bobby have any luck finding out where this Horseman summoning is supposed to go down?”

“Yeah,” you check your notes, “Apparently Death, the Fourth Horseman, must be brought into this world at midnight through a place of ‘awful carnage.’ I guess the first full-scale battle of the Civil War fits the bill. It’s gonna be on the east outskirts of town as far as I can tell.”

“Think we should head out there since it looks like a ghost town here?”

You chew on your lip, eyes scanning the darkness for any signs of movement. “Maybe we should check some houses to see if anyone is hiding out first? We can get over to the memorial site on foot after so Baby doesn’t set ‘em off.”

Dean nods, and Baby growls back to life has he takes her past the main street toward a more residential area of town. The two of you spend about twenty minutes going door-to-door, picking locks, and calling out quietly for any hiding survivors. With no luck, and no signs of struggle, you wrap up your search and steal over to the outskirts of town.

There’s a shift in the air as you creep closer to the site — a low thrumming of voices and thuds, but something about it feels off. Dean motions for you to circle around a group of trees where there’s a hill for you to get a better vantage point. You nod and quietly move out while Dean keeps watch.

The stench of blood that meets your nostrils is unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. You try to breath through your mouth to avoid gagging, but the taste of blood in the air isn’t better. When you reach the top of the mound, you peek over to the scene below.

A large crowd, forty-two people by your quick count, is spread across the clearing; a massive hole on your far right swallows the earth bit by bit as a third of the crowd continue digging it wider and deeper. Others post angel sigils on the surrounding trees, but the majority of them are carrying bloodied bodies from one end of the clearing to the hole. You give yourself a moment to process how many bodies there are. Everyone in town, except the live ones in the clearing, must be dead.

There’s a dying bonfire in the middle of the clearing, and one of the men hoists up a body and casually tosses it into the flames. The fire catches onto the clothes quickly, before sinking into the flesh of the body hungrily. You cover your nose before the smell reaches you. Another man runs over to the first and throws a fist. You can’t hear the distinct words, but you can tell from the gestures that the body was intended for the grave, not as kindling for the fire.

With the renewed firelight, it’s easy to see the dozens of pairs of coal black eyes.   
After a final sweeping glance over the area, you creep back down the hill to where you left Dean. He’s crouched by a bush about twenty yards away from the opening of the trees, peering through the branches.

“Hey,” you breathe, settling next to him, “we got about forty demons to take care of. And they’re putting up sigils, so we’re not getting angel backup.”

“No,” he replies, not bothering to whisper, “you’re not.”

You jerk away a split second too late — a demon sporting Dean’s jacket and a similar cut launches at you, pinning your hands down as your back slams to the ground. His knee digs into your gut, and it knocks the wind out of you.

Demons surround the two of you, aiding the first by restraining your arms and legs despite your thrashing as the panic sets in; you’re outnumbered and you don’t know where Dean is, so getting loose from these creeps won’t even improve your situation. You can’t help but continue to struggle, even if it’s to see if you can get a glimpse of where they took Dean.

They drag you to the clearing, the underbrush clawing at your legs until you’re pinned to a tree where the bark takes its turn digging into your skin thanks to a particularly skeevy-looking demon who ties you up with rope. After some biting remarks, they clear from your line of sight and return to their preparations, and you search the area for Dean. Out of the corner of your, you find him roped up to a tree on your left, his head sagging forward.

“Dean!” you hiss.

He doesn’t move. You curse under your breath.

It must be nearing midnight, because not a single demon has even bothered to glance at you and Dean after restraining you. You take in a not-so-calming breath that leaves your tongue tasting iron from the lingering smell of blood in the air, and you test the rope to find enough slack to reach your pocket knife. The demons weren’t too concerned with disarming you — no need, when they’ll be summoning Death himself any minute now.

It takes some straining to retrieve the knife, but you position the blade well enough that sawing the rope isn’t obvious or impossible. Not that you need to worry about being obvious any longer — the demons have finished the heavy lifting and are gathering in a semi-circle around the pit full of bodies.

A faint voice leads the rest in a haunting incantation, the sudden roar startling you enough that your grip on the knife almost slips. You readjust and saw at the rope more vigorously, racing against time.

“Dean! Wake up, Dean!” You’re not whispering as quietly, but you’d rather take on fifty demons over Death fucking incarnate; you really don’t want to know what Death does to people who evade him longer than they’re fated to.

The rope around you gives way, and once you untangle yourself, you’re by Dean’s side, slicing at his ropes and giving his cheek a couple swats. His eyes squeeze tight before squinting open, and you whisper, “Oh, thank fuck,” and release the rest of his bonds.

“What the hell,” Dean croaks, his eyes fixed on the group behind you.

You follow his stare, and your mouth goes dry. The demons are still chanting — at least, the ones still standing are, but one-by-one a bright flash of light consumes them, and they topple over. Lifeless.

“Dean, we lost this Seal. We have to go. Now,” you plead. He nods in agreement; before you can even leave the clearing, the earth rumbles and knocks you off balance. Your knees hit the ground hard. The shaking increases until it overpowers the chanting, though when you turn back to the crowd of demons, no one is standing.

From the pit, a thick fog pours out, rolling over the demons and enveloping you. Dean calls your name, but it’s muffled and you can’t see him anywhere. The only thing you can see is a burnt umber light emanating from the pit, and a solitary silhouette rising from it.

All at once, the earth settles back into place and the fog dissipates. The figure from the pit (you hesitate to call him a man, knowing he’s much more than that) makes his way through the bodies, tossing limbs out of his path with the flick of a walking cane in his grasp. As he comes closer, you can see his cadaverous features: hollow cheeks, a hooked nose, and a receding hairline make him appear more skeletal than he is. His eyes are dark, and his lips press into a thin line when he spots you and Dean collapsed on the ground.

Dean is within your line of sight in seconds, standing a half-step ahead of you, as if Death would be disadvantaged by his position. You clamber to your feet, and the small pocket knife in your hand feels woefully inadequate as a weapon against the force that comes to a halt several feet away from you and Dean.

He observes you both, checks the lapels of his suit, and wipes away what must be a speck of dirt. “Well,” he sighs. “That was a big fuss.”

Neither you nor Dean respond. From behind your friend, you see his muscles tense as he prepares for whatever fight is coming.

“I don’t suppose either of you had a hand in coordinating my resurrection, so-to-speak?” His voice is weary, but his eyes are sharp, examining you then Dean thoroughly.

“Us?” Dean asks, checking with you over his shoulder. “No, we-uh, we were trying to stop... them?” his voice falters when Death raises a curious brow.

Death hums. “Well then.” And his eyes fall back to you, this time with a squint.

Dean pipes back up, and you want to punch him after he says, “Are you— you gonna kill us?”

You’re certain Death rolls his eyes before they land back on Dean. “So you can plead your case for why I shouldn’t? You really overestimate your importance, Dean Winchester.”

Dean stiffens even more. Death, however, shifts his focus to the clearing and sighs. “I don’t suppose either of you know where I can get a meal around here? No one ever bothers to summon me near adequate food options.”

The question throws you, but Dean answers this one too, albeit more hesitantly, “Couple hours away, but Kansas City has some of the best barbeque—”

You smack his arm and shoot him a glare when he turns to you and says, “What? He asked!”

“Excellent,” Death comments. He pauses, then calls your name, “I’d like to have a word with you in private.” He raises his cane, taps it on the ground, and you fly.

When your stomach settles and your head stops spinning, you take in your surroundings. The barbeque joint Death selected is small and empty, walls covered with rusty vintage signs and framed news clippings. Dean is no longer beside you, which actually relieves you. At least he wouldn’t have to watch.

The smell of barbeque makes your mouth water, and you realize Death is sitting in front of you, the steaming platter of a sampler in front of him.

“There’s no one here, and it’s midnight,” you say, perplexed. “How did you even get that?”

Death shrugs as he helps himself to the ribs, delicately placing a small rack on the plate in front of him. “Plucked it from an order earlier today. It wasn’t terribly missed. Please,” he gestures to the seat across from him, before slicing meat off the bone and taking a bite.

You sit and wait for him to finish chewing. “Why am I here?”

“I wanted to meet with you privately, considering your… current condition,” he says.

“You’re referring to my immortality?” It’s far past your time, and you don’t see the point of beating around the bush for the sake of faux civility.

He ignores your question, instead choosing to push the platter toward you. “This barbeque is truly divine. Thankfully Dean has good taste. Try some.”

His nonchalance grates your nerves, and without thinking you blurt out, “Aren’t you supposed to be off wreaking chaos by causing mass deaths?”

There’s a stiffness in the air while he finishes another bite, his eyes never once leaving yours. “Eat,” he repeats firmly.

You serve yourself two bites’ worth of pulled pork drenched in sauce, and eat in silence for those two bites. Then, “Are you going to reap me?”

Death sighs, clearly exasperated, and he dabs at his mouth with his napkin. “Balance is a precarious little thing. Even for you humans, you think you have it, when all it takes is a gust of wind or a shift in the earth to topple you over. And as I’m sure you know from your studies, it’s even more delicate when morality is considered.” You nod. “Equally delicate is the balance of life and death; with the wars humans wage and the little regard you lot hold for how much life this rock can even sustain, it’s more than a full time job keeping the balance in check.”

He pauses to take a few more bites of barbeque, as you process his words.

“Personally, I’m exhausted enough as it is, keeping tally and ensuring a natural order. An apocalypse is,” he scowls at this, “so unnecessarily supernatural, if you will. But it’s in the books, and when duty calls, I must abide.”

You wait for him to continue. He doesn’t, choosing instead to dive into the pulled pork himself.

“That doesn’t answer my question. Are you reaping me?” you press.

He sighs loudly. “You’d think an extended lifespan would have taught you some patience, but alas.” He bites into the pulled pork. “Oh that’s delicious.”

Then, after he’s finished, “I find it interesting, how the seemingly small choices one makes alters one’s life path. Every day, millions of people are skirting Death, until their time comes. Of course, it always comes: the only constant in life is Death.”

You maintain silence this time, vainly trying to prove that you have a modicum of patience for the harbinger of death.

“Then there are the big choices. The ones that tip the scale off balance. Your own angel made such a choice gifting you life without a natural death.”

There it is. Despite your calmness earlier, your heart jumps at his reference to Castiel. “I didn’t ask for it,” you retort defensively.

“Regardless,” he continues, “here you are. Alive well past any events that would have led to your life’s end. Sharing knowledge and helping to prevent further deaths. Upsetting the natural order.” he wipes his mouth of barbeque sauce with a napkin. “And here I am to make up the difference.”

“I understand.” Just do it already, you want to scream. Your heart is pounding erratically, maybe knowingly that its beats are numbered.

“Oh? You think your paltry demise will balance out the scales? That the years you’ve accumulated will somehow make up the difference?” he lets out a derisive laugh. “Souls are vulnerable, impermanent. Yes, they are stronger than you know and more valuable than you can imagine. But a soul is still one soul, no matter how old and stretched.”

Goosebumps spread over your skin instantly, and you lose your breath. “Are you saying that you have to kill innocent people because I was made immortal against my will?”

“I have to reap the casualties of the apocalypse, regardless of you and your lifespan,” he clarifies. “However, that number includes more than predestined, thanks to the imbalance caused by your prolonged existence.”

You shout, cracking from the guilt, “So take me now!”

The room didn’t echo your words, but the silence it offers is more deafening than if it had. Your pulse roars in your ears _takemetakemetakeme takeme takeme takeme take me take me take me_ …

Softly, Death says, “I’m afraid I can’t do that. You still have work to do.”

“But I’m upsetting the balance,” your voice shakes, “What work is so important that it’s worth that?”

Death helps himself to the brisket this time. “Ah, you don’t know by now? It’s entirely up to you and the choices you decide to make.” He sets down the fork, eyes peering at you thoughtfully before he reaches for his cane, “Just remember, it’s all about the souls,” and he taps it on the wood floor once.

You’re thrown backwards, caught by the back of Baby’s front bench seconds later. Caught off guard, Dean swears and swerves. “What the fuck—” When he realizes it’s you in the passenger seat, he pulls over and reaches across the bench, checking you for injuries. “Jesus, kid. Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

It takes you a second to put together the words you end up saying. “I… ate Kansas City barbeque with Death?” You look at Dean, his mouth gaping in shock. “I think he liked your recommendation, though.”

He snorts and leans back into the headrest. “Who even writes this shit?”

Dean finally stops badgering you about why Death whisked you away after you blame it on your immortality. Well, after he confirms you didn’t make a deal with Death to take your life or elongate it further. His exact phrasing was, “And there were no deals? You pinky swear?”

And there weren’t, so you pinky swore. But you didn’t tell him that you did ask Death to take you, or that Death refused. It wouldn’t do any good for him to know.

At any rate, the drive back to your place is quick, and you offer the guest bed to Dean, who gleefully accepts. Before long, you’re dozing off, sending a sleepy prayer to Castiel confirming your safety.

The next morning, the sun greets you gently with its warmth, carefully stroking your hairline along your temple.

“Mmmf,” you hum contently and nuzzle toward it. Very nice sun. Good weight. Comfy tempo. The sun whispers your name, low and scratchy, and you burrow into the blanket before cracking an eye open.

A crinkled pair of baby blues smile down at you, and Castiel greets you with a sweet “good morning” from his perch on the edge of your mattress.

“Hi,” you whisper. Castiel slows the tender circles of his thumb, and pulls back as you sit up in bed. The events of the previous night come back to you in waves, and once you’re awake enough, you launch into your report, “Dean and I weren’t able to stop the Seal.”

Castiel nods, but his lips press together tightly. “I heard; I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to help.”

You shake your head, swinging your legs over the side of the bed. “No, don’t apologize. They had the area heavily warded, and they got the jump on us before I could even get through it.” Seeing the look in Castiel’s eyes, you reassure him, “I’m okay, promise. They didn’t even knock me out. Just didn’t want us to interfere, and they succeeded.”

He searches your eyes, then asks, “What about Death?”

“He ignored us, mostly.”

Castiel raises a brow. “Mostly,” he replies. It’s a question without sounding like it.

You decide to skip the finer details. “Well. Death wasn’t thrilled to meet someone cheating the system,” Castiel only slightly tightens his jaw at that, “but he gave me some cryptic message about having work to do and it all being about the souls. Whatever that means.” You shrug.

“He gave you this message alone?” Castiel asks. The lines on his forehead are deep, and you reach up to brush a thumb over them until they’re smooth. He smiles softly at your efforts to soothe him.

“Yeah, Dean was out,” you half-lie. Castiel nods, but his eyes are far away. “Hey,” you try to bring him back. “Can I ask you something?”

“Always.” His eyes are present, hyper-focused on you, and not for the first time under his intense gaze, you lose track of your question.

You pause, collecting your thoughts and the right words to share with him. “When Death was talking about my soul, he said something. About how they—the souls, I mean—are valuable. ‘More valuable than you can imagine’ were his words. And that they’re vulnerable, but strong.” You pause, watching Castiel take in the information. “Obviously, the last two seem contradictory, but they’re not. Souls are easily corrupted, which makes them vulnerable, but they can’t be destroyed completely or split apart. But what did he mean by souls being valuable?”

Castiel rolls your question around in his head; you’re familiar with the way he gets lost in thought like this, where his eyes nearly glaze over and the tip of his tongue slips out to wet his lips. He breathes deeply and gazes out your window. “Have you ever wondered why crossroads demons fight so hard to make so many deals?”

You shrug. “Thought it was because they’re evil dicks who like torturing people.” Castiel raises a brow, expecting a more serious answer, so you add, “And... they need the souls for something?”

“Souls are a lifeforce for humans,” he explains. “And when humans die, the soul is what remains. Only this time, it’s left without a vessel, so-to-speak, to power.”

It doesn’t take long for the dots to connect. “Oh, shit,” you whisper. “Souls are what power Hell. And Heaven?”

It’s all about the souls.

The knowledge worms its way into your mental catalogue, and much like you would in the middle of your dissertation research, you get lost on a train of thought applying this new information to the rest of what you know about Heaven, Hell, and Purgatory. Castiel watches you intently, but you’ve nearly forgotten he’s in the room.

If souls power wherever they are stored, be it a human vessel or a spiritual location, that explains the source of Heaven’s and Hell’s power, and the balance of the natural order that Death maintains between them. But humans aren’t the only creatures with souls; most monsters were human either directly or ancestrally. Their souls can be corrupted, twisted, but not gone entirely; they go beyond the natural order, which means their souls don’t go to Heaven or Hell. You know from your research that monsters go to Purgatory upon their death. And if Heaven and Hell are equally matched in power, and Purgatory has souls, power, resources—

You’re back in the present with Castiel, his face twisted into concern and his hand grasping yours. You squeeze back reassuringly. “Cas, I have some research to do.”

“Okay.” The corner of his mouth lifts, and he raises your hand to his lips, placing a soft kiss on your knuckles. “Don’t work too hard.”

“I don’t know about that,” you tease, leaning in to press your own kiss to his lips. “Working too hard usually earns me some nice alone time with you.”

He chuckles. “Is that what I’ve been doing? Rewarding your bad habits?”

“Maybe,” you smile and drift in for another kiss.

The moment is broken by a dull thud and a swear from the doorway, and you jerk back to see Dean, hopping on one sock-covered foot with the other leg outstretched, his face screwed up in pain.

You ignore Castiel’s glare, and send Dean a shit-eating grin. “Stub your toe, Dean?”

“Yeah, hurts like a bitch,” he mumbles. “Sorry, I uh... I thought you were just sleeping off last night still, but I didn’t want to leave without givin’ you a heads up.”

“It’s okay,” you reassure him, despite Castiel’s expression clearly saying the opposite. “Lemme walk you out.”

Dean nods and darts down the stairs, giving you time to peck a bewildered Castiel on the cheek and throw on a jacket and boots over your pajamas before meeting Dean at the entry.

He doesn’t speak until the front door closes. “So is that why you moved out of Bobby’s?”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not a case, Dean. And I left because I can’t listen to Sam scream like that nonstop.”

“Hey,” Dean’s retort is weary. “The detox is working. He hardly screams anymore; we think he’ll be okay to let out once this whole thing is over.”

“Jesus, Dean,” you snap. “Once it’s over? You can’t trust your detoxed brother to stay clean long enough to help us win this bullshit?”

“I want to! But he thinks drinking that crap is helping us win.” Dean drags a hand over his face, and it’s apparent the rest he got last night didn’t even make a dent in the amount he’s lost over the last few weeks.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” you apologize. If you can’t stand Sam’s screams for more than a couple nights, then it must be torture for Dean to listen to it for weeks on end. “I know this isn’t easy on you.”

He claps a hand on your shoulder and steers you toward him for an embrace. “Yeah, I know, kid. ‘S’okay.” He breathes in, readying to say something, but you cut him off.

“And please don’t worry about me and Cas, m’kay? We’re good.”

Dean squeezes you a little tighter. “I hope so, kid. Just worry about you, is all. It’s weird timing that right when something went screwy with Sam, you’re out of Bobby’s, and we never see you except for working a Seal case here and there. Not to mention you’re getting all domestic with an angel who—”

“I know. But nothing is fishy. He’s really changed. Promise,” you pull back and stare him in the eyes to prove it.

He gazes back for a while and sighs. “Just don’t pull back from us, kid. We’re family.”

You nod, giving him another quick hug. “Drive back safe? Let me know when you get home.”

Dean promises as he slides into Baby and starts her up. You don’t stay outside long enough to watch the Impala disappear down your driveway; there’s something you need to look into.

_April 2009_

“How many times do I have to tell you, Angel of Thursday,” Crowley hisses. “If I give you the details of every Seal I know, Hell will suspect a traitor in their midst and our whole operation goes up in flames.”

Castiel holds back a frustrated growl. “The likelihood of you knowing all remaining Seals of the 600 that have not yet been broken or that Heaven does not already know of is highly unlikely Crowley. Besides, the last thing you or I need is for Sam Winchester to be the only thing holding back Lucifer’s return, when he’s on the verge of being released by his brother.”

“We’ll find that whore Ruby soon enough, angel.” Crowley leans back in his office chair, feet propped on the desk. “But we wouldn’t have to worry about racing against the clock if we had more clues to Purgatory, hmm?”

“Indeed,” Castiel murmurs. He wants so badly to show Crowley how sharp you are — how all you needed to come up with the demon’s exact plan was a side comment from Death himself on the value of a soul.

Well, you hadn’t yet told Castiel that. But he watched your eyes as you connected the dots, watched your very essence flare in excitement at your realization. And when you slept at night, he glanced over the papers and books scattered over your desk — the very same that Castiel had scoured for the leads he passed on to Crowley.

Oh, it gave Castiel chills to think that his human could find Purgatory all on her own when this obnoxious demon couldn’t with all his connections. But he couldn’t reveal his hand just yet. Crowley, while valuing the knowledge you possessed, still underestimates your abilities, and Castiel wants to keep it that way.

“I’ll see if I can get her to reveal anything,” Castiel assures the demon. His words seem to placate Crowley.

“Excellent. And I’ll double down on the hunt for Ruby.” He pours himself a glass of whisky, raising the glass in Castiel’s direction. “Cheers for the rebellion, eh?”

Castiel’s fingers twitch, but he nods curtly. Crowley swallows down the drink while his angel ally imagines slitting his throat.

 


	11. Chapter 11

_March 1910_

You hate this dress. It’s gorgeous, one of your best even, but the lace trim on the neck and the elbow-length gloves always makes you itch. You glance at the mirror and see that you’re missing earrings. Castiel’s wings flutter behind you just as you reach the dresser.

“Cas!” You pluck the earrings from your jewelry box and turn to your angel. “I thought I’d just miss you.” You beam at her on your way back to the full-length mirror while she eyes your attire.

“Where are you going?” she inquires.   
  
You throw a giddy smile at her over your reflection’s shoulder before focusing on the mirror to assess your outfit. “I was invited out to dinner with Dr. Joseph Crenshaw. We spoke for almost an hour after the symposium last month and he wants to hear about my research.”

You hoist up your skirts and move to give Castiel a kiss on her cheek. “I’ve missed you this week. I’m sorry I have to leave when you just got here.”  
  
“You’re not going.” You whip your head up to face her.   
  
“What do you mean?” you ask breathlessly. Castiel’s face is stoic — she hasn’t smiled once since she arrived.   
  
“I don’t think it is wise,” she says curtly. “Besides, I seem to recall telling you that you shouldn’t leave the house without me.”

“Castiel,” your voice raises a pitch. “This is a great opportunity. I have been working on this research for years and it’s finally being recognized—”  
  
“No,” Castiel repeats firmly. She grabs your wrist and begins tugging at your glove, finger by finger.  
  
“Cas,” you try again. Her resolve is steady, but you can’t let this opportunity pass you by. She yanks off the first glove and moves to your other hand. “I can’t turn down a dinner invitation less than an hour beforehand. That’s extremely rude.”  
  
“I’ll make him forget he asked you,” she says. You pull away suddenly, appalled by her demeanor. She tosses your lace gloves onto the bed, emphasizing her resolve.  
  
“You will do no such thing.” Her eyes narrow at your stubbornness. “I need this, Cas! You have no idea how hard it is for a woman to garner any type of respect within higher education, let alone research in my field.”

“Is this recognition worth risking your life?” Castiel snaps. “Is it worth risking me?”

You wince and bite your lip. Of course you don’t mean to put Castiel in danger. You did enough damage when Esper infiltrated your dreams.

Castiel takes your silence for what it is — an apology of sorts. She moves toward you to cup your face in her hand, but you jerk away from her. She says your name admonishingly.

“That’s not — I didn’t mean to,” you start. “I was just so excited to finally get this chance.” You avoid her eyes pointedly. “I’m sorry, Castiel. I wasn’t trying to defy you. I just wanted to get out of the house for once. It’s lonely when you’re gone.”

You stay still when she pulls at your fingertips, drawing you closer until she’s nose-to-nose with you. Her thumbs slowly drift back and forth over the backs of your hands.

“Look at me,” she murmurs, whispering your name sweetly when you hesitate. Her blue eyes are soft when you meet them. “Why don’t we invite him to dinner here, instead? You will be safe and I can keep an eye on you while you discuss your research with Crenshaw.”

Your eyes light up a bit. “Really?”

Castiel gives you a small smile. “Yes. It pains me to say no to you.”

You can’t stop the smile spreading across your face. “Thank you, Cas.” You rush in to kiss her cheek, giving her hands a strong squeeze before sprinting down to the telephone in the kitchen.

-

Castiel waits in your room, listening as you get a hold of Crenshaw and invite him over. She bristles at the tone of Crenshaw’s tinny voice through the phone, at the suggestion he appears to hear in your invitation. Not wanting to dampen your enthusiasm, Castiel puts on a smile for you while you busy yourself tidying the dining and sitting rooms.

She veils herself in the room when Crenshaw arrives, and she waits. She waits and she watches.

You’re a vision, bubbling and bursting with excitement at the prospect of sharing your research with someone so highly regarded in academia who wants to listen. Who appears to want to listen. Castiel watches in admiration as you sideline Crenshaw’s more subtle advances in favor of launching into the synopsis of your dissertation.

Castiel also watches Crenshaw like a hawk. Watches his eyes rake over your bodice when you aren’t looking. Clenches her fists when you finally notice Crenshaw subverting your points of discussion in favor of flattery-laden remarks. Her chest aches when your mood visibly declines, and you finish your dinner quickly so you can give Crenshaw the excuse of retiring to bed.

After some reluctance on his part and some resilient stubbornness on yours, he leaves your home. Castiel yearns to follow him and smite him as retribution for his behavior toward you.

Instead, she watches while you finish clearing the last of the dishes from the table, and rest your hands on the kitchen counter to sag against it. Castiel drops the veil, heels softly clicking against the tile flooring as she moves to console you.

“Not now, Castiel,” you whisper. From the tremble in your voice, Castiel can tell there are tears in your eyes threatening to spill over your cheeks.

“He did not want to discuss your research.”

“Cas, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I should have refused to let you meet with him,” she whispers, voice full of regret. She steps closer, a gentle hand brushing your hair soothingly. “I could have prevented it. Stopped you from being hurt like this.”

You’re quiet. Castiel takes your silence as affirmation, and folds you up in her arms so you can breathe in her smell and soak in her comfort. When she murmurs in your ear that no man on earth is worthy of your mind, you smile. And when she tells you that the Earth itself does not deserve your beauty or your kindness or your passion, you tell her to stop, giggling and blushing because it’s all very flattering and sweet, but you’re only you.

“Only mine,” Castiel corrects you between kisses, her lips and nose brushing yours possessively. “There is no one else like you. No one more perfect for me. Only for me.”

_May 2009_

You trip over a stack of books as you stumble out of your library, trying to follow the sound of your ringing cell phone since you can’t remember where the hell you last set it down. Having a house phone would be convenient, you think. Even better would be not having any kind of phone, like when you were a little girl.

The phone almost buzzes right off the kitchen counter with Dean’s name is lit up on the caller ID. You give a mock sigh before answering, “What is it now?”

“That any way to greet an old friend?”

The voice shocks you, and you’re nearly crying when you ask, “Sammy? Is it really you?”

“Why don’t you answer your door and find out, Smalls.”

Your chest seizes up, and you sprint to the front door and throw it open. Sweet Sam is standing there, crooked grin on his face, looking rested and rosy-cheeked. He’s radiating, and you can’t help but throw yourself into his chest for a hug.

“You look good, bud,” you say, muffled and teary into his t-shirt. God, you don’t even remember how many weeks it’s been since Dean locked him up, but the detox must have worked.

“Hey, do I get any love around here?” Dean peeks out from behind Sam, and you wrap an arm around his neck to drag him into a group hug.

“You assholes,” you choke through the emotion welling up in your throat. “Couldn’t have called me when you left Bobby’s?” You pull back and lead them into the kitchen.

“Sammy wanted to, but I told him he’d get a kick out of seeing the look on your face,” Dean insists. Sam rolls his eyes and elbows Dean, while you bark out a laugh.

You dig around in the fridge and find the container of leftover spaghetti. “Well, aren’t you a big softie, Dean. You guys hungry?”

They cheer for your cooking, even if it’s leftovers, and you fix up a mid-afternoon lunch for your little family. Despite the Seals and the apocalypse and your new Purgatory research, for the next few hours you feel normal again.

You throw memories back and forth, like your first real hunt with the boys, or the first time you all met at the Roadhouse. Dean makes fun of Sam’s hair, Sam makes fun of Dean’s favorite movies. You share the story about Sam meeting you at Stanford, asking if the seat next to you in class was open, then immediately afterwards asking if you had a study partner.

“I thought he was trying to hit on me,” you chuckle at Sam’s red face and Dean’s smug grin. “So I pointed at a girl across the room and told him to try his lines on her.”

“And that’s when I told you I already had a girlfriend, I was just looking for a study partner,” Sam added defensively, wacking his brother.

“So I told him if he could keep up with me the first month of class, I’d be happy to tutor him,” you whisper conspiratorially at Dean, who’s struggling to hold back laughter.

You go back and forth until Dean breaks, tears streaming down his cheeks, and your stomach hurts from the force of your own cackling. Sam’s rolling his eyes, but he smiles and excuses himself to use the restroom, and a nice quiet settles over the room. You’d forgotten how much joy these boys brought you.

“He looks good, Dean,” you admit. “I’m sorry I didn’t believe you about the detox.”

Dean shakes his head and clears the table of your plates; he starts up the sink to wash them. “Nah, kiddo. It was rough when we finally opened the door. He wasn’t blood drunk anymore, but he was mad as hell. And he should be. It wasn’t my call to make.”

“When did you let him out?”

“Earlier this week,” Dean ducks your gaze.

“Oh?” your face falls, your unspoken, “and you didn’t call?" fills the air, makes the room feel stuffy.

Dean checks to make sure Sam is still gone. “Hey, I wanted to let you know, but I needed to sort it out with him. Brother to brother. I had to give him some space to show him I trust him and care about him. Y’know, apologize.”

“That’s good, Dean.” You meet him by the sink and give his shoulder a squeeze. “That’s what the kids call ‘growth.’”

He snorts. “So now I got the old lady tryin’ to teach me slang from the youths?”

You both laugh and knock shoulders, and when Sam gets back, he starts drying the dishes. The boys meet eyes while Dean finishes washing the last dish.

“I’m gonna give Bobby a call, let him know we’re heading back soon,” he says, placing it on the drying rack for Sam.

You give Dean another hug and a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you, Dean-o.”

“‘Course you do, kid.”

Sam’s quiet until the front door clicks shut; he clears his throat while he finishes drying the last dish. “Dean, uh. Dean said you finally convinced him to let me outta there. And that you didn’t know he was gonna pull that to begin with.” You stack the plates away in the cupboard. Sam says your name gently, drawing your focus back to him. “Thank you.”

You shake it off. “Sam, you know why he did it. The same reason you were doing what you were.” He leans against the counter and you settle in next to him. “Good intentions, bad decisions. It happens to all of us, you know that.”

He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you in close. “Yeah. It just means a lot that you didn’t want me in there, even with the state I was in. You wanted to trust me to make the right choice. I know I let you down, but I appreciate it.”

“Hey, you didn’t let me down,” you object, “I would never blame you for an addiction. You got a good heart, Sam. That’s what matters.”

There’s a nice quiet between the two of you, and it reminds you of your college years at Stanford, studying with Sam in his dorm room. He breaks it with, “And speaking of good intentions…”

You scoff. “Dean plays dirty. I knew he let you out of there to give me a talk.”

“Hey,” Sam chides. “He’s just looking out.”

“He doesn’t need to,” you retort, pushing off from the counter and taking a washcloth to the kitchen table. “I’ve been looking out for myself almost a hundred years.”

“Good, because I want to hear about how happy he makes you.”

You stop your cleaning and shoot a genuine smile over your shoulder. “Really happy, Sam.”

He waits while you finish, and when the dirty cloth is in the sink, you settle into a chair. “You know, it’s like we picked up right before everything went wrong. And even then, he’s not overly protective of me — Cas knows I can take care of myself because I’m still here after all this time, y’know?” your heart flutters just a bit as you say, “Like I’ve shown him I always meant it, and he believes me now, no questions asked.”

“I’m really happy for you. If anyone deserves this, it’s you.”

Baby’s roar pierces the air, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Okay, I think that’s my cue.” He checks his phone, taps a quick message, and tucks the phone away. “I’m sure we’ll be seeing you soon enough for a hunt. Not too many Seals left, you know?”

Reality crashes back in, and in that split second, you realize you can’t share your research with the boys. Not until you know it will work; if it doesn’t, it could send Sam reeling back to Ruby, desperate to help and vulnerable to a relapse.

“Yeah. Sam?”

“Mhmm?”

You hold his eyes with yours while you ask, “You’re not going to contact Ruby ever again, right?”

He blinks, a little surprised, frowns, and shakes his head. “No point, right? If I wasn’t ready before the detox, ‘s’no way I could get ready in time now. It’s in the past.”

“Yeah,” you breath, the sudden weight lightened. “Yeah, you’re right.”

He sets his giant hands on either side of your face and places his lips to the crown of your head. “See ya, Smalls.”

“Bye, Sammy.”

You watch the boys drive off until Baby’s no longer visible. After a quick check of the time, you decide to make a call to an old research colleague. It’s time you finished this.

_May 2009_

When Castiel arrives back home, you’re perched on the edge of the couch. A neat stack of papers rests on the coffee table in front of you, and you’re bouncing your knee nervously. His heart leaps at the sight. If it means what he thinks, this could all be resolved so soon. He calls your name, and you nearly jump out of your seat, teeth chewing on your bottom lip to keep the excitement written all over your face held at bay.

“Cas, I have something important to tell you.” Your voice is a lesson in restraint, level and cool, showing none of the hope and anxiousness that your body is expressing.

His hand floats from your cheek when he kisses you to your lower back as you lean over to scoop up the papers. “What is this, En El I?”

“I’ve been thinking,” you start slowly, taking in a deep breath to slow down. “The other day, when you explained what Death meant. ‘It’s all about the souls.’ I… I think I have a way to stop the apocalypse.”

This is it. Castiel’s form is positively thrumming with anticipation.

“I wanted to be absolutely sure. I didn’t want to tell the boys and get their hopes up, so I wanted to run it by you first.” You take in another shaky breath. “The reason Heaven and Hell are so evenly matched is because of the balance caused by the natural order, right? Souls don’t go to Heaven or Hell in large groups, and if they do, it’s quickly counteracted to keep the balance.”

Your eyes are bright and hopeful, and Castiel is rapt with attention as you continue. “But there’s another place that souls go, Cas. Purgatory. Every monster killed in all of existence is there. Enough souls that a counterbalance would take a long time to correct. We could use them to stop the apocalypse.”

Oh, you’re so close. Castiel furrows his brow, and asks, “You’re suggesting that Heaven retrieve souls from Purgatory?”

“Yes; well, the reapers would retrieve them. They’re the only ones with access to both places. And we would only be borrowing them long enough to stop Lilith. Then the reapers can take them back.”

Castiel pretends to ponder your notes that you hand him, as you rattle off the rest of your talking points. “I contacted an old research friend of mine — someone I met a couple decades ago. She focuses on medieval studies, but we always connected over my Purgatory research. Turns out she’s _from_ there…”

Your voices fades away as Castiel processes this. He sees your scribbled notes with “Ellie Visyak” at the top of a page, and a paragraph of Latin below it. Underneath you wrote “virgin blood (maybe Jo?), Purgatory blood (Ellie), lunar eclipse (Feb. 20!),” and a complex sigil.  
  
“... said she could help us so the door doesn’t open too wide. But she confirmed this should be easily done, as long as Heaven returns the souls when they’re done.” You take in a deep breath. “So? What do you think?”

Castiel spends half a second longer scanning a second page, filled with calculations of how many souls could be in Purgatory, estimates of how many could possibly be in Heaven and Hell, and the current population of Earth. Your numbers were off by a few million, but he is impressed regardless.

Your eyes are wide when he finally meets them, and he allows his relief to break through his vessel’s features. “You’re incredible,” he breathes with a smile. You begin to tear up as you throw your arms around him.

“Don’t shit me, Cas. You really think it’ll work?” Your voice is muffled by his trench coat. Castiel chuckles and wraps his arms around you, kissing your temple.

“I think this is exactly what we need to win.”

You pull back and press your tear-stained lips against his. Cas drops your papers on the table, lowers his grip, and hoists you up in the air, giving you room to wrap your legs around his hips. Immediately, you grind against him, and Castiel allows your moan to break apart your kiss.

“But first,” he murmurs, eyes smouldering with heat, “you deserve a great reward for your efforts.”

Castiel delights in the way your breath hitches, and he runs the bridge of his nose along your jaw, tilting your chin upwards and exposing your pulse. Your scent here is second only to your cunt, but he’ll get to that soon enough.

An excruciatingly feather-light rake of his teeth along your neck draws out another whine and roll of your hips. One of your hands is wrapped up in his hair, and every time your grip tightens, he gets harder.

His patience wears thin quickly, and with the swiftest singular beat of his wings, you’re upstairs in your room. Castiel offers a gentle, still-heated kiss before letting your feet touch the floor. When you pull away, he revels in your dazed eyes, pupils dilated so that only a thin ring of color is visible.

Castiel begins with his trench coat, shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor behind him. He watches your eyes follow his fingers as they deftly pluck open the buttons of his sleeves and roll them up his forearms. He discovered, not too long ago, some additional benefits to this vessel, and he quite enjoyed exercising them whenever possible. He couldn’t contain himself when you submitted so much more smoothly to him in this form than you had in the past.

He gazes at you through his lashes, and your face is divine — cheeks flushed, lower lip caught between your teeth, and the pulse in your neck pounding away as your chest rises and falls with your shallow breaths. Perfection.

Castiel runs a thumb across your lips, and your jaw immediately drops to give it access. Once he slides it in, your lips wrap around it so beautifully. You wait patiently as he tugs his thumb out and presses it back in repeatedly, sufficiently coating it so you can feel the wetness smear across your cheek when he cups your jaw.

One more kiss, Castiel thinks, before he begins to unravel you. And that’s what he does. Each article of clothing is peeled off delicately, painfully slow. Each time Castiel’s hands brush your skin, you lurch toward the contact, your desperation for pressure and his touch unveiled.

Finally, _finally_ , you’re bare. Your skin glows in the soft light of the setting sun, and Castiel smiles so tenderly that you whimper his name in a plea. He obliges, kneeling in front of you, hands sending goosebumps up your flesh as he drags them from your knees and up your legs to rest one on your hip, and the other between your thighs. You oblige so easily, widening your stance to grant him access, and he praises you for opening up to him.

One finger glides through your labia, already slick from his teasing, and you immediately keen and throw your hands to his shoulders for support. He doesn’t slow or speed or stop. Methodically, he rubs the digit from your clit to your cunt.

“Please,” you rasp. “Cas, I need you.”

This is Castiel’s favorite part. “Again, En El I,” he murmurs. The solitary finger slides up in you, but it’s not enough.

“I need you, Cas, please,” you beg, hips stuttering with his slowly-paced thrusts. “Cas, all of you, please.”

“You have me,” he coos, nuzzling the crease between your thigh and mound without shifting his pace. He gazes up to watch your face as he adds another finger seamlessly, your lip quivers and your brows knit together as your breath is stolen from your lungs by your own body.

Castiel’s vessel strains against his clothes, but before he relieves the pressure he wants to taste you. He gives you another dozen or so pumps with two fingers before swiftly removing them (he’s so thankful he remembers how easy it is to pull these beautiful sounds from your lips), and replacing them with his own lips and tongue.

The orgasm he pulls from you builds subtly — he likes when they surprise you, the way you’re suddenly wide-eyed and crying out in shock from the release. When your legs are shaking properly, he discards his clothes, lifts you in his arms again, and slides into you. You whine this time, from the relief of Castiel making you feel so full. A single tear escapes the corner of your eye as the moan tears out of your lungs.

Your back meets the wall, and with this leverage, Castiel prepares to move.

He doesn’t yet. Castiel is so patient, but after making him wait so many years, you thankfully indulge him almost immediately.

“Castiel, please,” you whine. “I need it, need you, I love you, please.”

So he begins. Thanks to gravity pulling your hips down, every one of his thrusts up has you landing right against him, sending a new wave of pleasure through you both. It’s intimate, your heads curled in toward each other so Castiel can consume every noise and breath you release.

This time, you and Castiel both feel your orgasm build from the start; each thrust wraps your cunt around him tighter, until even Castiel’s smooth strokes have begun to stutter.

“Please, Cas,” your voice cracks, “Castiel!” Your eyes find his, and he nods with a gasp of your name.

With a few final thrusts, you’re falling over the edge and pulling Castiel along with you. He presses his mouth to your collarbone as he finishes, and you pull your arms tighter around his neck.

“So good,” he murmurs, trailing kisses up to your mouth. “My clever, perfect girl.”

You hum in response, gasping when Castiel pulls his cock out of you. He carries you to the bed, laying you down gently and climbing in beside you.

“Cas?”

“Hmm.” He lets his fingers trail along your skin, his grace working its way to your core for another round.

Your thought gets lost, but Castiel doesn’t mind; you’re already moving in to kiss him, saying, “I love you, Castiel.”

 


	12. Chapter 12

_January 1911_

  
When you wake and stretch, you know not to expect your fingers to brush Castiel’s hair or to feel her weight pressed into your back. With the latest developments of the war, she had not been home much, and even when she did spend an evening with you, she was long gone by sunrise.

Of course, that knowledge did not make the realization easier.

You rise and prepare for the day ahead, making a mental note to let Castiel know you needed to go to the store today for some items. She’s been insisting that you stay home as much as possible; Anna’s last update put her in a sour mood, and you don’t want to worry her more than she already is.

After breakfast comes chores, and they pass by in a flurry. There are only a few dishes left from the night before to wash, and you’d already dusted twice this week. After a quick scan to ensure there was no other tidying to do, you settle in at your desk, a blank page of your journal staring up at you.

Journaling about your life with Castiel has evolved since you began it all those years ago. It was so easy to fill a page, gushing about how attentive she was when it came to your research or how her eyes lit up when you surprised her by learning Enochian. When the war in Heaven grew more serious and pulled Castiel away from you more frequently, there was a change in her demeanor — a fierce determination to protect you.

As serious as it all is, you do think fondly of the idea that Castiel is your guardian angel. It helps you through the weeks when she is gone, and it gives you clarity in the moments when she’s curt with you.

Especially because those moments have increased in frequency. You sigh and set down your pen. While you want this journal to be an accurate record of your love and life with Castiel, you hate to invite unnecessary negativity into its pages.

You realize you’re staring out the window, and decide fresh air will do you some good, even if it’s just sitting on your front step to watch the pedestrians going about their days. After donning shoes, you make your way to the front door.

Except, when you try to turn the knob, it doesn’t budge. Your brows crinkle in confusion and you check the lock before giving the door another unsuccessful tug. You make your way to the back door, wondering if the other is jammed from the outside.

This theory is quickly eliminated when the back door won’t open either.

Anxiety seeps in and you immediately shoot a worried prayer to Castiel, trying to reign in your panicked breathing. When she doesn’t arrive immediately (you know she often cannot), you hurry to the kitchen to try the window.

It doesn’t budge, and your next prayer to Castiel is verbal and full of trepidation. “Castiel, please help me?”

“Do you need to go somewhere?” You whip around to see Castiel looking you over from the kitchen entry, concern etched in her frown. “You’re trembling, En El I.”

“What’s going on?” you ask shakily, ignoring her question.

Castiel answers dryly, “Well I was in a briefing with Anna, who will be needing my presence again quite soon. But what is it that you need help with?”

You fight back the embarrassed blush that heats your face. “The doors are locked, Cas.”

“I thought we agreed you didn’t need to leave unless I am here to join you,” she replies carefully.

“I’m not leaving. I just wanted to sit outside and enjoy the air. And I can’t even open my windows!” you exclaim.

Castiel raises a brow, and you feel the blush hit your cheeks in full force. “There’s no need to raise your voice with me,” Castiel says coolly. “I’m only keeping you out of harm’s way.”

Her meaning takes a moment to sink in — everything she does is to protect you, and you know this. But in this case, she means…

“You mean,” your breath catches in your throat, “you locked me in here on purpose?” Castiel doesn’t answer, but you know it to be true. “Cas, you can’t just—”

She cuts through your attempt at admonition easily, “I can, and I will do what is necessary to protect you, as we have discussed many times.”

“Castiel,” your voice cracks. “You’re locking me up like I’m a prisoner! There’s a difference between protection and imprisonment.”

Her eyes flash sharply, and you duck your head. “Of course, there is. I care about you. That’s why you’re not allowed to leave the house.”

“Not allowed—”

Castiel is no longer several feet away from you, and it’s much harder to finish your protest with her towering over you like she is. She tucks a stray hair behind your ear, then firmly places her hand at the nape of your neck.

She whispers your name, and presses her lips to your temple. “I’m sorry you don’t approve of my methods. But I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you. I must go, but I trust we won’t need to discuss this later?”

Her grip loosens when you nod, however haltingly, and she’s gone with a flap of wings.

You stay frozen in shock as the first tear rolls down your cheek, but you don’t let the rest fall until that night when you can cry yourself to sleep under the cover of darkness.

_May 2009_   
_8:47 PM_

Castiel buzzes with delight. You did it. You found an answer all on your own, the solution to his many problems: Heaven and their antiquated rules, the apocalypse, his inability to properly protect you in his current form. Everything would be better now.

The blood was so simple to collect — virgin blood is easy to come by and you had already identified the Purgatory native. It’s a shame your notes didn’t specify how much blood, but Castiel knows it’s for a greater cause. Two lives for the salvation of the whole earth and your protection? It wasn’t even a question.

He knows he’s diverging from your plan only slightly, but you don’t know that Heaven can’t be trusted to use these souls responsibly, not to mention return them after the task is done. This way, the balance remains intact.

There. He steps back from the wall of the abandoned barn in Bradley, Illinois, and observes the sigil, comparing it to your notes. Perfect. This location is directly in line with the path of the total lunar eclipse. Castiel only has to wait a few more hours.

_9:32 PM_

Sam and Dean share an uneasy look as you check your watch for the eighth time in two minutes. Ellie was supposed to be here an hour ago, and you’re starting to worry. Sam is typing away, doing his best to hack the airplane’s passenger log to see if Ellie even boarded the flight that did, in fact, land an hour and a half ago.

You send another frustrated prayer up to Castiel, pleading for help and some sort of answer, hoping that Heaven didn’t find him out before you could even put your plan into action.

Dean clears his throat, pulling you out of your thoughts to show you a news report on his phone. Dr. Eleanor Visyak was found dead in her office earlier that day, her throat slit, and cause of death listed as blood loss.

“I’m sorry, kid.”

You shake your head and blink away the tears. “This means someone’s doing the spell right? Maybe Heaven is doing all this, but they don’t want Castiel to run off before they have all the components?”

“Let’s just hope it’s not a demon,” Sam says quietly.

_12:01 AM_

Before Castiel opened the door to Purgatory, your last prayer to him as an angel gave him a moment’s doubt. Concern that you wouldn’t understand, worry that the spell wouldn’t work and that his efforts were for nothing, fear of his own death.

None of those doubts plagued him now.

Everything is so clear; he was called to do this. No other angel had the access, the means to achieve what he did. None had the heart nor the drive to do what he did, because he alone acted out of love.

The other angels didn’t feel as Castiel felt. They followed orders from Michael and Raphael because they had no other moral compass. No God to lead them, no love to guide them. Castiel has you, though. And that’s why he alone could prevail.

He glances at his fallen brothers and sisters, their wings overlaying so thickly that the earth beneath them appeared black. He steps around Raphael and over Michael. Now that Heaven’s traitors can no longer interfere with his work, he can deal with Lilith.

_1:38 AM_

It’s late, well past midnight, when the three of you get back to your place and crash: you in your bed, Sam in the guest room after a half-hearted rock-paper-scissors win, and Dean on the couch. The eclipse ended over an hour ago, meaning your chance to open Purgatory’s door was gone until the next one in the fall.

You’re lying awake in bed, half-terrified that the last Seal could break at any moment, and half-worried sick for Castiel’s wellbeing. You’d stopped praying to him during the eclipse, hoping that he was somehow working with Heaven to get the door open, and you didn’t want to distract him.

Now, after the long drive home, you just want to be held and told everything will be okay.

“All will be well, En El I.”

You jolt up in bed at the voice and flurry of wings. Castiel is standing at the foot of your bed offering you a content smile.

“Cas,” you gasp, clambering out of bed and throwing your arms around him. “God, you’re okay! I was so worried, where were you tonight?”

He doesn’t immediately return your embrace, but when you pull back to look him in the eyes, he seems pleased. “Do not worry. You’re safe. You’re all safe.”

Your heart skips a beat. “What do you mean? It’s done? Cas, did Heaven do it?”

He frowns at that. “Not Heaven. I did it.”

You take a step back and examine Castiel more thoroughly. He looks normal, if a little stiffer and more formal than he typically acts around you.

“But the reapers helped you,” you ask carefully, “right?”

This visibly frustrates him, and he says your name scoldingly. “No. It was only me.”

Your heart is pounding wildly, like it’s trying to leap out through your throat. This was not the plan. Castiel taking action alone was not a part of the plan.

“What’d you do, Cas?” you ask softly.

That seems to make him feel better, and he lifts his chin with pride. “The souls helped me understand, En El I. No one else could have done what I did.”

Castiel steps forward suddenly, and you refrain from flinching and moving back another step. He grasps your hand, thumbing soothing circles over the knuckle of your thumb, and says, “Without God, the other angels were lead astray. But me? Even without my Father, I had you to guide me.” A grin stretches across his face. “No other angel has what we have together. And that’s why it had to be me. I had to stop Michael and Raphael and their army. I had to banish Lilith to the Cage and lock the demons away in Hell. Don’t you see? I did it all for you, because of you.”

He’s elated to share this with you, but each word dries your mouth and quickens your heartbeat. This is worse than bad. You wrack your brain, trying to think of how to solve this. A Castiel powerful enough to eliminate two archangels, an angelic host, and lock the first demon away in a cage with Lucifer could not possibly be a stable Castiel. But he appears set on receiving your approval; maybe you can use that.

“Thank you, Cas,” you whisper slowly. His whole being relaxes with your words. Okay, good. You tread carefully with your next suggestion, “But, now that the threats are gone, we can probably put back the souls now, right?”

“No!” His voice shakes your entire house and skies above it, and his eyes glow pure white. The shock of it all knocks you off balance, and it isn’t until Castiel sees you shaking on the floor that his eyes dim and his demeanor changes. “Oh, En El I, don’t be afraid. I would never harm you,” he kneels beside you, wrapping an arm around the small of your back, and gently taking your hand closest to him in his free hand. “Tell me you know this,” he implores.

“Y-yeah, Cas,” you stutter. “I know.”

Footsteps thud in the hall, and you remember Dean and Sam were sleeping soundly before Castiel shook the foundation of your home. One of them calls your name right before the sounds cease in the doorway.

“Hey, Cas, about time you showed up,” Dean sasses. You feel Castiel tense around you as he helps you to your feet. “Did you two feel that earthquake?”

“No,” Castiel comments coldly.

Sam gives Castiel a strange look and exchanges a glance with Dean. You need to get them away from the angel so you can talk him down. If he’s really done what he said, he’s incredibly volatile.

Keeping your voice as steady as possible, you say, “Hey, would you guys give me some time alone with Cas?” you squeeze Castiel’s hand tight to draw his attention away from the boys. “I was just getting ready to tell him how I want to fly out to Poughkeepsie because it’s such a romantic getaway for couples. Thought he might like it, y’know?”

You smile at Castiel, hoping he doesn’t notice how tense you are or how your heart rate leveled the fuck out as soon as Dean and Sam showed up. You have to keep them safe, and that means he can’t know you’re sending them a message.

Thankfully, Castiel has his back turned to them when Sam and Dean double take, and is staring at you in wonder with wide eyes and soft smile.

“Uh,” Sam clears his throat and says your name cautiously, while Dean quickly schools his panicked expression into a clenched jaw. “You sure you’re thinking about Poughkeepsie?”

“Positive,” you say firmly. Neither Dean nor Sam move and you try to think of how else to share information without suspicion from Castiel. “Hey, Cas?” you ask timidly. “Do you mind if I tell them what you did for me? That big romantic gesture?”

“Oh, that should come from me,” Castiel replies. “After all, this is the first time the Winchesters have come face-to-face with their God.”

_September 1911_

It’s strange how exposure to time can result in utter ignorance of it. Castiel has existed for eons. She’s witnessed nations rise and fall, the creation of stars and the destruction of earth, miracles and wars, the endless circle of life.

But one morning, as she watches you crack a sleepy eye open, Castiel remembers how time works. You nuzzle in closer and whisper, “Happy anniversary, Cas,” against her collarbone. “Can you believe it’s been three years since we met?”

Castiel knows how long a year is; however, in that moment, she’s thrown into a state of shock because you perceive time differently than she does. Three years is nothing to Castiel. She’s blinked and missed a decade of history before, as much time as a third of your life. And that’s what sends her into a tailspin.

Humans used to live so long — Methuselah’s 969 years being the most notable of these achievements — but now it’s rare for them to reach 100 years old. And you… you’re so young. A mere infant just brought into the world when compared to all of creation.

She doesn’t want to lose you.

Of course, you would be taken to Heaven, but angels are not to interfere or integrate with the heavens of the souls it takes in. What a devastating blow, to be so close and forbidden to be together.

No, she wouldn’t allow it. She would find a way to extend your life on Earth. At least then, Castiel would have more time with you.

Before the week’s end, Castiel sought out a witch to teach her the spell. It hadn’t taken long — while Heaven did not care for those who sought immortality, they were not ignored. Her brother Pravuil kept the records of timelines, both of humans and events, and an innocent query regarding whether any individuals on Earth had made any foolish attempts for immortal life launched him into a tirade about a witch nearing 300 years old who had cast such a spell on herself and at least one other.

She was directed to search in Milan, with encouragement from Pravuil to “take care of the witch” if she saw fit.

Castiel found her easily, thanks to the mountain of bright red curls piled on the witch’s head, and the spell was easily obtained, thanks to the witch’s sense of self-preservation. And just like that, Castiel felt comfort in the knowledge that she would be able to save you from your fate.

She prepares the spell before returning home. Better to not worry you or cause questions, especially when you know she always acts in your best interest. It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell you. No, she wants to ensure that it is successful, so that your hopes are not dashed if it fails.

When she follows the directions down to the correct number of stirs, and the potion sparks and smokes before settling, Castiel has to bury her giddiness. Not yet, she chides in her mind. Soon. She tastes the concoction, ensuring there are no undesirable effects, and bottles it up.

You’re in the study when Castiel returns, buried deep in a dusty tome. She brews a pot of tea and mixes the potion into your cup, her smile barely hidden as she carries it to you at the desk. You glance up from the pages and offer a smile.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” she replies to your wordless greeting.

A peck on the cheek. Quick brush of the thumb in a circle on your shoulder. Bated breath as you reach for the cup. A curt nod in response to your gratitude. Hawk eyes following your cup as it’s raised to your lips. Then the first sip.

“What tea is this, Cas?” you ask, taking another sip. “It has some interesting flavors.”

“A new recipe I thought you might like,” she replies breathlessly. You press your cheek to her hand resting on your shoulder, then take a few more sips.

“Oh,” you raise a hand to your chest and set down the cup, brows furrowed. “I’m sorry, Cas, I don’t think the tea is agreeing with me.”

Castiel doesn’t respond. She had the witch record every second of the effects; any deviation and Castiel immediately heals you and rids you of the potion. Now she observes.

The heartburn seems to ease, but not before you break out into a sweat. “Cas?” you whine from the discomfort. “Castiel, I’m so… so warm. What…,” you’re nearly panting, “what was in that tea?”

She lays a finger on your forehead. A fever of 105 degrees Fahrenheit, just as the witch said. There’s panic in your eyes, but Castiel brushes a hair out of your face and coos your name softly. Only a few minutes more.

You cry through most of it — Castiel can’t ease the pain for you. The witch said any interference as the potion worked its course may tamper with its effects, so instead she calms you by holding you and rubbing soothing circles on your arm with her thumb.

“It’s almost over,” she whispers as your body temperature begins to drop.

Castiel kisses your temple when it’s done. “I’m so proud of you,” she says.

You’re shaking like a leaf, and your voice is small and raspy when you speak. “What was that?”

She gently pulls away enough to face you, wanting to see your reaction when she shares the good news. “I gave you a potion, En El I. A special one that will ensure we can be together.”

“What do you mean? We are together.” Your brows are furrowed in confusion, and she watches your lip tugs downward into a frown. That’s not right, Castiel thinks.

“Yes, but only for so long,” she explains more clearly. You’re not appreciating the meaning of what she’s done, and she needs you to properly understand. “I am talking about eternity.”

“Like Heaven?”

Castiel huffs, then says, “No, En El I. On Earth. You’re immortal now. So you don’t have to worry about death or being apart from me.”

The color that was returning to your face drains, confusing Castiel even more. She doesn’t know why you’re not rejoicing with her.

“Castiel,” you say. “Don’t you think I should have a say in the matter?”

“Why? You agree that I’m always looking out for your best interests, don’t you?” Why is she having to defend herself? She’s protecting you, saving you from the daily reset offered in the bubble that would be your Heaven. Saving you both from a tearful farewell on your deathbed, either in old age or some other tragic accident.

“Castiel,” you chide softly, the shock evident by the lack of warmth in your eyes.

This is all wrong. She stands, towering over you, a disapproving frown darkening her features. “I would have thought you’d be grateful,” she whispers shakily. You don’t want this. You must not want her. “Were you lying when you told me you loved me?”

“Of course not, Cas—”

“Then why do you seem so disturbed at the idea of us spending forever together?” she retorts.

Your shock crumbles away into a quivering lower lip and teary eyes. Her heart softens at the emotion in your face, but she holds steady. “Cas, I don’t mean— of course, I wanted to spend forever with you. But I’m still a person, and I should be able to make decisions about my future, my body, my life. You can’t just take that away from me.”

“What have I taken?” Castiel is flustered, annoyed. Of course, you’re wrapped up in the idea of agency. “If anything I have given you all that you could ever want. Love, protection, and now time. Would you not have picked this if I had presented you with the option?”

Her eyes narrow as you attempt to respond, stuttering in your embarrassment, “Well, no. I mean, maybe, but now that I can’t, I’m not sure. It’s not about the intent, Cas—”

“If you would have said yes regardless, then I don’t see the issue.” Her tone is dripping with frustration, but it’s sharp. Final. End of discussion.

You sheepishly bow your head, and whisper, “Okay.”

Castiel sighs then. You’re closing off, and she doesn’t want that. She wants to see your smile, hear you tell her that you’re hers and you love her. “Come, En El I. Let’s get you cleaned up. Maybe you’ll feel better after a bath.”

She doesn’t wait for your response, holding out her hand for yours so she can lead you to the bathroom. You hesitate, but take her hand when it twitches from the wait. Her steely grip isn’t painful; she doesn’t want to harm you. That’s the last thing she’d want. It’s a reminder of her resolve to protect you.

You stand silently behind Castiel as she draws water for the bath, and she listens to your breath and your heartbeat. It had been pounding in the study, but that was a side effect of the potion mainly. Now it thuds along, perhaps a beat faster than normal, but steady.

She stands and turns to see you haven’t moved, and a sigh leaves her lips. “Let me,” she murmurs, reaching for the back of your dress. You turn easily to give her access to your corset, and her deft fingers pull the strings free with ease. They weave through the folds of your dress next, searching for the seams to pull the garment over your head.

The fabric hits the floor, and Castiel stares in amazement, not for the first time, at your figure. Her eyes travel the curve of your neck and shoulder, her hand brushes the skin of your back, softly dipping into the curves of your skin. Your breath hitches, and relief fills Castiel’s vessel.

You’re still hers.

She wraps an arm around your waist, gently following the curve of your hips and belly, and her fingers sweep down to the apex of your thighs. They’re pressed together, but with some encouragement, you inch them apart so Castiel can press against your lips.

You shift from the friction her fingers create, and Castiel grits her teeth before drawing grace to your clit. A choked sob leaves your throat, and she coos at you approvingly when her fingers finally slide into your cunt.

“That’s it, En El I,” she whispers as your hips thrust frantically against her, then slow to a rhythm that’s familiar. Castiel draws an orgasm from you, but maintains the pressure of her grace to send you straight into a second. Your hips stutter and your voice cracks, “A-ah!” with the first orgasm before your even thrusts start up again.

After your second orgasm, Castiel pulls back her grace, and your body twitches with the aftermath. She presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your cheek. You haven’t moved, so she softly calls your name.

“Thank you, Castiel.” You sound weary, and Castiel is hopeful that a good night’s rest will have you feeling better about the day’s affairs.

“You’re welcome, O Zod I En,” she replies, pleased. “Let’s get you cleaned up now.”

_May 2009_   
_2:13 AM_

“Our what-now?” Dean asks, eyes flitting over to you nervously. While Castiel turns to them, your tight smile slips, and you just barely jerk your head toward the front of the house with wide eyes. Sam’s jaw ticks at your gesture.

“With the aid of the souls in Purgatory,” Castiel begins, “I stopped Heaven’s plan to initiate a war with Hell that would have lead to the apocalypse. I was able to lock away Lilith and all her demons, so they can no longer wreak havoc on the earth. These miracles are impossible to any entity, except God.”

“O-okay,” Sam stutters, finally sensing the danger of the situation. “Thank you, Cas?”

“And,” you add quickly, “He was just telling me why he can’t put the souls from Purgatory back. Right, Cas?”

He turns to you, his eyes stormy, and a single brow raised. “You think there is something your God cannot do?”

“No,” you amend, “no, I didn’t mean can’t, of course you could if you wanted to. What I meant was you won’t. Unless you want to?”

Castiel knits his brows together and, lifting both hands, cups your jaw in them securely. He murmurs your name, searching your eyes sympathetically. “Of course I don’t want to. I promised I would keep you safe, did I not? With the power these souls provide, I can finally keep that promise in a way that I could not as a lowly angel.”

“But if the demons and Lilith are all locked up, and Michael’s out of the picture, no one is left to hurt her, Cas,” Sam pipes up from the doorway, speaking slowly and softly. “She’s as safe as can be. You don’t need all those souls.”

“This is not up for debate, Sam Winchester,” Castiel replies contemptuously. “Especially from a human who continues to corrupt his own body and soul with the blood of demons, after the lengths your family has gone through to rehabilitate you.”

This startles you and Dean, and Sam’s face falls with guilt. You want to be upset with Sam for lying to you about Ruby, for going back to her again, but you’re too terrified by your current predicament to be properly upset.

“So you see why I cannot trust her to be safe, when there are dangers her own friends would subject her to.” Castiel returns his gaze to you, drawing your attention back to him with gentle strokes along your cheek. “You see it, En El I, don’t you?”

It sounds rhetorical, but you nod anyway with a small, “Mhmm,” that you muster up to placate him.

His face brightens up. “I’m glad you agree. I know you consider them your friends, but they’re really not safe for you to be around. They have to leave.”

Leave? _No_. Not this again, no please. The room begins to spin, and you wonder if that’s why it’s so hard to breathe. Muffled voices are calling your name, or you think they are. Were? It’s all stopped now.

You blink slowly until you realize you’re not dizzy anymore. After a deep breath in, you discover you’re lying in bed. Your bed, specifically.

When your feet hit the floor with a dull thud, you expect to be met with flutter of wings and a reprimand from Castiel about staying in bed to rest, but the house is silent. The bedroom door is open, so you race down the stairs to an empty first floor and a locked front door.

Maybe it’s the familiar sound of a rattling door knob or the dull thud of a lock that refuses to budge, but as you try to yank the door open, and as the door persistently resists your attempts, your throat tightens; drawing breath becomes more difficult.

“No,” you wheeze, your hand falling away from the handle limply. “No, no, no.”

Thin, reedy breaths eke out more quickly as you turn to the windows, fingers scratching at the cracks, palms slapping against the glass, trying anything to just get out. It’s too little space, not enough air, exactly like last time.

“Cas, no please.” You can’t do this again, this wasn’t supposed to happen again. She changed, you’d seen it in his eyes. You’d been so careful, and then so very stupid and trusting and how could you let her back in—

A soft hand wipes away the wetness stained on your cheeks, and the touch grounds you just as you’re realizing how deep in the sea of panic you are. Castiel says your name, and his face comes into focus shortly after.

“There she is,” he murmurs. His eyes glow bright and white, and you flinch instinctively.

As the flash fades, your breathing clears and your anxieties fades; the space around you doesn’t feel so small anymore. Even Castiel — as close as he is — kneels just over a foot away from where you’re curled up on the floor.

Castiel is frowning when your eyes finally reach his face again. “You were not well,” he states.

“I… I panicked. Castiel, you locked me up.” Your voice cracks at the end.

“No,” he assures you, “Not locking you up. Locking those who would harm you out.”

“That’s what you did last time!” you cry. “You locked me up and said it was for my safety and never let me leave.”

He brushes a strand of hair out of your face and, with a soft admonishment of your name, says, “That was different. I couldn’t protect you then like I can now. You can leave whenever you like, En El I, with me by your side.”

His encouragement falls short, and you numbly follow his direction as he guides you to your feet, your hands resting in his grasp.

“I want to see Sam and Dean.”

Castiel stiffens. “Why?”

“Because they’re my family.”

His hands twitch, before they leave yours and instead cup your face. “Am I not your family?”

You pause and wet your lips. He’s genuinely asking; his tone is hurt, not in an unhinged way, and he’s asking for comfort, not demanding it. You take a moment, then you mimic his hands, framing his face.

“Castiel. I’ve known you my whole, long life. And no one,” you breathe shakily, “no one has loved me harder than you. And I’ve never met anyone who takes my breath away like you.”

He cracks a shy smile at that, softening the worry on his face. “You’ve never been like the other angels, Castiel,” you continue. “Every question you ask is to learn, and you genuinely cared about me from the moment we met. You know me, probably better than I know myself.”

Your eyes water, and you blink away the tears, pressing on despite the wavering in your voice. “Castiel, I love you more than I can put into words. And I know you feel the same. But this is wrong.”

Castiel’s growing smile fades. One of his fingers twitches against your cheek. “What are you saying, En El I?”

“I’m saying that what you’re doing, keeping all the souls in Purgatory inside you, is wrong. You went behind my back, you lied to me, and even if I had agreed to this, you should still return the souls.”

He knocks your hands away from his face and paces past you. “I did all this to protect you, and you accuse me of betrayal? If I return these souls now, the rest of the angels would tear out my grace as retribution. How can I protect you then?”

“Cas, what’s so wrong about falling?” you ask quietly. He scoffs your name, and you double down. “I mean it, Castiel. If being in love with an angel puts me in danger, and you have to do all these terrible things to protect me, then why not fall and just live with me as a human?”

You watch carefully as he half-turns toward you, then stops to process this information, as if he’d never considered falling. For a second, you think you’ve gotten through to him; his jaw is slack, eyes distant like he’s running calculations. Then his brows furrow and his fists clench tight.

“No.”

The word knocks the wind out of you. From the corner of your eye, a tear finally drops. You thought this would work; why isn’t this working? “Wh- Cas? Why? Why is being mortal with me not good enough?!”

“Don’t you see, En El I? It’s not about mortality being good enough for me. It’s about you being too good for mortality. Your soul shines far too bright to be diminished as a mere power source in Heaven.”

The tears are streaming freely now, and an ugly sob chokes out when you say, “You haven’t changed at all, Castiel. You never changed, never wanted to.”

He’s in your face then, the back of your neck tight in his grasp. “I tried,” he grimaces, “I tried everything, and you never gave me a chance. It was only when my plans for this were set into motion that you finally let me in. That’s when I knew. It was a sign I was on the right path.”

You try to pull back, but he’s relentless and unmoving. His stormy eyes water, and for the first time ever, you see an angel cry.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers your name. “You no longer have a say in the matter.”

“Cas, what are you doing,” you panic as his eyes glow, whiting out your entire vision. “Castiel!”

Colorful scenes dance across the whiteness. Faint memories of your childhood, your youth. The images are muddled, but get clearer as time goes on. The sharpest image is your first meeting with Castiel. Then your second.

The scenes are flying by, but they slow at varying points during your former life with Castiel. Periods of time where she was gone for weeks or months on end. Nights you cried into your pillow after she shouted at you for not practicing your sigils or for leaving the house without telling her. Rather than following the other scenes floating across your eyes, these simply begin to fade. When they disappear, it’s like it never happened.

“What are you doing, Castiel?” You think you whisper, but you can’t hear your voice, only the cacophony of the memories.

The scenes advance slowly as Castiel edits the memories to his liking, until the day you ran, which also fades from existence. The years after are different — he doesn’t eliminate them completely, but they’re murky; there is now a faint image of his silhouette in most of them. Like he’s adding himself into the life you had without him.

You can feel the tears pouring, but as far as you can tell, it’s not affecting the clarity of what’s happening right before your mind’s eye.

When you reach the year 2002, Castiel almost comes to a halt. Sam’s face is bright and cheery, completely clear in the dullness of your first class with him. Then it’s gone. You wail in protest, but endure as every instance of Sam’s and Dean’s faces are wiped away from your mind. No one can hear you, you realize. Not even yourself.

Castiel slows as he approaches the last year. Your reunion. He does something different here, maintaining the clarity, but changing the emotions. The fear and the heightened anxiety you felt are twisted into a relief and joy at seeing his face after he had to go away for a while.

“That’s not what happened!” you scream silently.

He edits so carefully, so purposefully crafting a smile on your face where one hadn’t been, tweaking an emotion to pull differently on your heartstrings. He removes memories in bulk, keeps what he desires, changes what he doesn’t like.

You finally see yourself speaking to him, in your house, seconds (or maybe hours) ago. You don’t know how long you’ve been standing here. He leaves most of your confession intact, save for the end where it goes sour. And as you watch him grasp the back of your neck and shed tears of his own, everything fades to white.

_3:00 AM_

He coos your name softly, testing the waters. Your eyes flutter beautifully, only light tears in the corners now.

“Cas?” you ask, clearly dazed.

“Are you feeling all right, En El I?” He holds his breath (not that a god needs to) in anticipation.

He watches your soul glow and flicker as your face heats in embarrassment. “Oh, I’m,” you let out a nervous laugh, “...wow, I got really emotional just then, didn’t I?”

Relief floods him and he can’t help but press a kiss to your temple. “It’s all right, En El I.”

Your arms pull him into a warm embrace and you rest your head on his chest. “I just had to tell you, Castiel, that you mean the world to me. You have to know how much I love you.”

“I do,” he says knowingly. “I really do.”

Castiel stays in your embrace a few moments longer, sharing smiling kisses with you and squeezes of reassurance. You deepen the kisses, pulling at his lapels to get him closer to you, and Castiel smiles at your eagerness. He runs a hand up your spine and into the strands of hair at the nape of your neck. A gentle, but solid tug leaves you gasping inches away from his lips.

“Cas,” you whine. “Please, I need you, please.”

He groans and buries his face into the crook of your neck, leaving biting marks peppered on your skin while your moans echo off the empty walls. When he releases your hair, you push the coat off his shoulders and your fingers fumble with his tie and buttons.

“What’s the rush, O Zod I En?” he asks teasingly. “We have all the time in the world.”

“But I want you now, Castiel,” you breathe. Finally you unhook the last button and add his shirt to the pile you’ve started on the floor. “All of you.”

You’re on your knees, pulling his slacks down, lovingly wrapping his cock in your mouth, and the act of worship almost knocks him over. He gazes at your eyes in wonder as you work him over, until he can’t hold himself back any longer.

The bliss on your face sends his grace into a frenzy, buzzing with a need to have you, keep you, protect you, love you. He helps you stand only to gently guide you to the bed.

“You know no one will ever love you as much as I do.” Castiel brushes a thumb in gentle circles over the back of your hand as he pulls away to meet your eyes.

“Of course, Castiel. Always.”

Content, he leans in to press his lips to yours, echoing, “Always.” 

_June 1912_

It’s dark when Castiel leaves, and you know it’s your one chance to do this right.

You grab your satchel and stuff what you can into it: a change of clothes, your journal and research, some money left over from when you used to go outside. It’s been over a year since you’ve left the house.

Since then, everything you do is a test of your patience. Careful planning as to not draw suspicion from your overly attentive guardian. Learning Enochian well enough to create sigils of your own, under the pretense that you wanted to speak like an angel for your angel. Wearing a mask of delight and love and happiness so that Castiel would let down her guard. Battling your own inner turmoil as you fell in and out of love with her, day after day.

She said she would be gone for a week; a short assignment compared to the years during the war, but she had to go nevertheless. It’s enough time to get you far away. If you don’t leave now, you don’t know how much longer you can last.

You take a knife from the kitchen and slice into your hand, immediately putting the blood to use on the front door and on yourself. First, a cloaking sigil, to hide you from her eyes, then the counter sigil to the one keeping you locked inside. You almost cry when the lock clicks upon the sigil’s completion.

Bag thrown over your shoulder, and dish towel wrapped around your hand to staunch the bleeding, you hurry off into the night. You check the stars and run west.

The night air is chilling, but your body is hot, thrumming with adrenaline, heart beating out of your chest, waiting for Castiel to drop down in front of you and drag you back to your prison. You reach the edge of town after running for almost a half hour, and it’s not much longer before you’re under the cover of trees.

It’s liberating, this running. You haven’t stretched your legs like this in so long; your lungs are on fire, but you don’t dare stop or slow down. There’s a break in the woods where you glance up and see the night sky, shimmering with all her stars and the face of her moon.

Every minute that passes is another minute closer to freedom, and for a moment you feel like you’re flying, feet barely touching the earth as you sprint as far away from the city as you can imagine. Tears trickle from the corner of your eyes, and hysterical laughter bubbles out of you as you spread your arms like wings.

You’re finally free.

-

FIN

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, dear readers for sticking it out. This is my first completed multi-chapter fic of this scale. It was two years in the making, and I wouldn't have gotten through it without my betas (@fanforfanatic and @thran-duils on Tumblr). 
> 
> I know, I know, it's not a happy ending. I hope you understand why and are able to still get something out of this fic. This was to stretch and test my writing chops, and I'm honestly immensely proud of how it turned out. I'd love to hear from you all, too, even with the story complete. What did you love? What shocked you? Do you have headcanons for this fic or questions? Did you find all of my Easter eggs that I planted throughout the fic? 
> 
> This fic has already gotten more feedback and love than I would have ever dreamed, so again I want to thank you for your support and kind words. 
> 
> Until next time,  
> Kiri


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